


Corolan Prime

by CateAdams



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Bonding, Conspiracy, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, T'hy'la
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-23
Updated: 2014-08-02
Packaged: 2018-02-10 01:02:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 52,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2004999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CateAdams/pseuds/CateAdams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A horrifying event forces Jim and Spock to rebuild their friendship in the midst of a dangerous covert mission on a strategic world. When betrayal and greed lead to catastrophic consequences, they each must fight to survive, somehow holding onto hope and the promise of a relationship that neither can completely define, nor deny.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fault Lines

(posted on ksarchive.com beginning 23 June 2014)

 

Chapter One: Fault Lines

_His hands: his own hands holding the weapon, firing once, seeing his friend’s body shudder and crumple, shock evident in wide, brown eyes._

_His voice: his own laughter cutting through the sick silence, maniacal, sharp. He was trapped, ripping at his own mind in an effort to be free, and the laughter continued, jarring._

 

     Jim jerked awake, blinking rapidly, his alarm beeping next to the bed. He reached out with unsteady fingers, his movements awkward, and hit the button. The sudden silence was almost more startling, and Jim rubbed his hands over his eyes and through his hair, taking a single deep breath, and then another.

     The sheets were a tangle, and covered with sweat, a testament to another night spent disturbed by nightmares. Too clear, too vivid, and refusing to fade even in the slightest. Jim clenched his jaw, remembering a bitter phrase his mother used to say, _Time wounds all heals._ It seemed cruelly appropriate now. Bringing his hands down, Jim held them in front of him, seeing them tremble. He imagined, for an instant, the splatter of green that had haunted his dreams and averted his eyes sharply, his stomach twisting in familiar feelings of guilt, remorse, and pain.

     The captain pulled himself out of his bunk and into the bathroom, hitting the settings for a water shower. As the heat bathed his skin, he leaned his head back and sighed, breathing in the steam, willing the tension in his shoulders and neck away. Another night passed, and a full day ahead before he would have to face the uncertainty of sleep again. The fatigue was wearing on him, but he could see no end in sight. He considered inwardly that he deserved no end, and pushed the thought down, burying it beneath a veneer of barely preserved rationality.

     The corridors of the _Enterprise_ were quiet at the tail end of gamma shift, and the few crewmembers he passed nodded politely. What had happened on Darumar almost two weeks before was strictly classified, yet the crew could tell that it had been devastating by the change in their captain’s demeanor. Boisterous energy was now restrained, bright smiles subdued, ease of interaction and camaraderie simply gone. Jim’s professionalism was intact, the ship running smoothly and efficiently, but the captain’s spark was missing, his eyes haunted. Most conspicuous of all was the absence of their Vulcan first officer, usually always at his captain’s side. Jim even walked differently, now, his steps shorter and his shoulders stiff, as if he was forcing himself to disregard the void next to him.

     The captain entered the mess and punched in his order, his gaze fixed on the replicator panel, ignoring the fact that almost all eyes were on him. A cup of coffee and a plate of hot food on his tray, he made his way to an empty table at the side of the room. All of the crew avoided approaching him, reading the captain’s body language and preferring to allow him his distance. All, that is, but one.

     Jim had barely taken a sip of his coffee when McCoy slipped into the opposing seat, hazel eyes intent. “Mornin’ Jim.”

     The captain raised his head reluctantly. “Bones.”

     McCoy eyed him for a few seconds before leaning back slightly, glancing to the side where other crewmembers had pointedly returned to their own business and lowering his voice. “How’d you sleep last night?”

     Jim pushed his food around, meeting his friend’s gaze challengingly. McCoy pressed his lips together at the icy look in blue eyes, and exhaled. “That good, huh?”

     “Knock it off, Doctor. I’ve got another eval at eighteen hundred. Let’s keep to the schedule.”

     McCoy shrugged, his eyes measuring. “I figured you might want to talk off the record for a change.”

     A muscle in the captain’s jaw twitched but he didn’t respond, and the doctor shifted slightly, looking annoyed. “He’ll be back on the bridge today, you know. I’ve cleared him for light duty.” McCoy leaned forward and his voice lowered, becoming almost inaudible. “Have you even seen him yet?”

     Jim’s hard look did not soften, and the doctor exhaled again, leaning back and glancing down at the captain’s tray. “Maybe I should just let you get back to pretending to eat.”

     The captain’s eyes shifted deliberately away and McCoy’s mouth was a thin line as he pushed himself up from the table. “Fine. I’ll expect you at eighteen hundred sharp. Captain.” He didn’t bother to push in his chair, and the atmosphere in the room seemed to become impossibly thicker, the crew’s attention now adamantly on their own trays. Jim pushed down the urge to throw something and stood himself, disposing of his untouched food and stalking to the exit.

 

 

 

     The doors to the bridge slid open with familiar smoothness, and Jim felt his shoulders relax slightly in the busy, bright environment. He nodded to the gamma shift command officer, standing next to the center seat, and took the conn, sliding into his chair, allowing himself a tight smile.

     “Good morning, sir.” Sulu turned to nod at him from the helm.

     “Mr. Sulu.” Jim’s reply was polite, but terse, and the captain overlooked the glance exchanged between the helmsman and Chekov. A yeoman appeared at his side, requiring his signature on a series of forms, and he flicked his stylus across the PADD, perusing a fuel report, when the door to the turbolift slid open again and the young woman at his side let out an almost imperceptible gasp.

     Jim knew who it was without looking. He could tell from the smiles that lit up his bridge crew, from the sound of Nyota rising from her chair almost involuntarily. He swallowed, handed the PADD back to the yeoman, and turned.

     The Vulcan was standing there with his usual perfect posture, hands clasped behind his back, sleek hair combed, one eyebrow slightly raised in an almost perplexed way at the excited response to his entrance. Dark eyes swept the room before settling on Jim, and the captain nodded succinctly, his face expressionless. “Welcome back, Mr. Spock. Station.”

     “Sir.” Long strides to his board, a gentle nod to Nyota and to the other bridge officers, a low murmur of welcome following his progress. But Jim noticed the overly pale appearance of his skin, the tightness around his eyes and the shade of lingering bruising on his neck, the slight hitch to his gait, and the hesitation as he lowered himself into his chair. Jim swallowed again, pushing himself into pure professionalism, refusing to acknowledge the glances from his crew now accompanied by narrowed eyes, by open confusion.

     He was content that his voice did not shake when he next opened his mouth. “Status, Mr. Sulu.” And so the shift began.

 

 

 

     Jim stayed on the bridge beyond his usual shift, until five minutes before his scheduled appointment with McCoy. Spock had left hours earlier, still not cleared for full active status. They had spoken thirty-eight words to each other, all in the line of duty. Each one had made a sick feeling grow in Jim’s stomach, and it was one of the hardest things he had ever done to force himself to look his first officer in the eyes. The captain left the bridge and proceeded to sickbay without eating, his stride purposeful. Crewmembers moved out of the way, and Jim ignored their now obvious concern.

     The psych evaluation was perfunctory, and Jim knew he’d passed by McCoy’s slightly annoyed expression, just as he’d passed the day after it had happened, and every other day since. Bones stood behind his desk in his office, arms crossed, a scowl on his face. “I’m scheduling you again for two days from now.”

     Jim shrugged. “I’ll pass that one, too. I’m fit for command, Bones.”

     “You’re just not fit to sleep through the night.”

     The captain looked down, and the doctor let his arms fall to his sides. “Have you talked to him, Jim? He doesn’t blame you. You know that, right? You must’ve felt it when he... .”

     Jim abruptly stood up, his eyes blazing. “Now you’re out of line, Doctor.”

     Bones suddenly slammed his fist on his desk. “Bullshit. What happened to you was nothing any of us could go through and be ‘fine’. You assaulted your best friend; you nearly killed him. Even if you weren’t in your right mind, you still remember it. You can’t sleep for remembering it.”

     Jim stepped forward aggressively, his voice a snarl. “Not in my right mind? That’s a fucking understatement. I was barely in my mind at all. And that...that thing... .”

     “Is dead. Gone. Spock said he felt it die.”

     Jim’s face was a mask of tension and grief, his voice low. “Yeah, just about the same time that I felt him die.”

     McCoy’s expression softened. “He didn’t die, Jim.”

     The captain turned away. “You weren’t in his head, Bones.”

     “Jim... .”

     “Are we finished here?” Jim’s voice was unyielding. He left without waiting for the doctor’s response.

 

 

 

     The captain sat in his quarters, staring defiantly at his computer screen when the door buzzer sounded. This time, Jim did not need the reaction of others to know who it was. His heart raced and he stood up, staying deliberately behind the desk, keeping it as a last, desperate barrier against a confrontation he was not ready to have. “Come.”

     The door slid open to admit a tall, lean figure, dressed in his uniform blacks. Jim’s gaze slid away from intense, brown eyes, faltering over the shadows of bruises on the pale neck before settling somewhere above Spock’s right shoulder.

     Spock stepped in just far enough to allow the door to slide shut behind him, and the silence between them stretched until the Vulcan inclined his head slightly. “I apologize for disturbing you, Captain. I wished to inquire after your health in a more private forum.”

     Jim’s surprise at those words forced him to meet his first officer’s eyes again. “My health? Are you serious?”

     Now Spock lowered his gaze and shifted almost imperceptibly. “I also wished to assure you that I do not hold you in any fault. It was not... .”

     Jim waved his hand sharply, trying to conceal a sense of helpless panic that welled within him. “I’ve gotten that lecture from Bones already, and it’s crap.” Distress flitted across his face, replaced almost instantly by anger. “I can still see the fucking marks on your neck. And I bet the other wounds are still there, too, healing trance or no. My hands, Spock.”

     The Vulcan’s shoulders stiffened. “It was not your doing. To blame yourself is not logical.”

     “My hands; my hands with your blood on them. Saying it’s not my fault doesn’t make that just go away.” The panic had spread into his voice; Jim could hear the serration there.

     There was a space of several breaths, and Jim could literally feel Spock’s body tighten, knowing that by staying, by considering another argument, any argument, the Vulcan was straying onto unfamiliar ground, leaving logic behind. And when brown eyes rose, there was something in them quite different from accusation, or anger, and the captain froze, recognizing that look from another time, when he had been forced to watch. “No.” It was the barest of whispers, and now that he had the option to look away, he did.

     The Vulcan stepped forward: one step, two, three, until he was standing next to the desk, and Jim could no longer hide behind his makeshift barrier. Their eyes met again, and Jim’s breath caught. “I can’t. Please.” His voice was wrought with pain.

     “Jim.” Spock’s hand rose, just slightly, and there was an undeniable question behind the softly spoken word.

     The captain took a step back, and then another, and Spock’s hand lingered in midair for several long seconds before dropping back to his side. The Vulcan’s shoulders straightened, a mask slid across his face, and the expression left his eyes. Jim’s jaw worked, and he simply turned his back, his hands in fists at his sides, listening as the door to his quarters slid open and shut once more as his friend walked away.

 

_The thing inside of him screamed for blood, screamed for his fear, his anguish. His hands, moving without his volition, dropped the phaser to the floor, and he kicked it away, slipping forward with a predator’s movements to pick up a ceremonial knife dropped by one of the fleeing victims._

_His friend was still aware, stunned only, his physical reactions dulled, and the thing forced Jim to watch, to stare directly into brown eyes as his own hands held his friend down and the knife descended, again and again._

 

     This time, Jim opened his eyes with slow resignation, his hand moving sluggishly to shut off the alarm. He took a breath, feeling his jaw ache where he had ground his teeth through the night. He lay there, staring at the ceiling, listening to the deep thrum of the engines and the sounds of air moving through the vents. A shiver ran down his spine as he thought of Spock’s hand, raised towards him the previous night, as if in a plea. And he remembered the sensation of those fingers pressed desperately against his face, blood making them slick.

     Determinedly, he rose from bed, padding into the bathroom, avoiding his reflection in the mirror or the sight of the door that led to the adjoining cabin. He raised the temperature of the shower even higher than normal, wanting to wash away a lingering chill, pushing aside the memory of a too-cool body growing limp beneath him, a mental touch growing cold within his own thoughts. He scrubbed his skin until it felt raw, and dressed quickly, draining a cup of coffee from his cabin replicator and forcing himself to eat a piece of toast. Another day lay ahead of him, and he winced as he glanced at his bunk, a sense of irrational anger seeping into his gut.

     He had made it within two steps of his door when the intercom sounded, and the gamma shift comm officer’s voice came over his speaker, “Bridge to Captain.”

     Jim stopped and crossed back to his desk. “Kirk here.”

     “Lieutenant March, Captain. I’ve just received an urgent communiqué from Starfleet Command, sir, marked eyes-only.”

     “Pipe it down here, Lieutenant.”

     “Switching, sir.” 

     Two hours later, Jim strode into the briefing room, yet another cup of coffee in his hand. He surveyed the officers waiting for him, and nodded, stepping to the empty chair between Spock and Nyota. His usual place, and to avoid it would cause more trouble than it was worth, but he couldn’t bring himself to look towards his first officer as he usually did. Couldn’t force the bright smile and the brief touch on his shoulder, as was their custom over the past year in space. Too much had been exposed, too much laid bare, the deeper meanings hidden in those touches torn out and desecrated. He couldn’t bear the thought of touching his friend again with hands that had so recently been the cause of so much pain. His friend, the one being he held apart from all others. His other half, his conscience, his solace; of course the creature had yearned to destroy that. He had felt its pleasure as it had fed on the captain’s depthless anguish, made worse by the selfless expression in Spock’s eyes while it was happening, an expression that had ripped Jim apart even as he was the one wielding the weapon. Drawing a deliberately deep breath, the captain forced his mind into the present, and began the briefing.

     Sigma Corolan Prime was a class-M world rich in dilithium deposits and home to a humanoid population of simple farmers and craftsmen. When Starfleet had first encountered it, in the early days of exploration, the civilization on Corolan Prime was emerging into unified city-states, remarkably peaceful, and initial surveys had catalogued the world as falling securely under the auspices of the Prime Directive. However, the proximity of the planet to Klingon territory, and the richness of their minerals deposits made it a target for the Empire’s hostilities, and an occupation army tore through the peaceful settlements of the planet, beginning almost twenty years of ruthless hardship for the indigenous population. After Nero, the Klingons retreated, their fleet all but gone, and the people had reverted to violent infighting, harsh xenophobic paranoia, and a rejection of technology couched in religious beliefs.

     With the Prime Directive no longer directly applicable, and the Federation in need of dilithium to fuel its expanding fleet, the _Enterprise_ was being assigned to a covert survey mission on Corolan Prime. They would evaluate the ground situation and the extent of Klingon interference and then assess the potential for a trade agreement. Jim was granted leeway to contact the indigenous leaders, if absolutely necessary. A compounding problem was the recent resurgence of the Klingon armada. Reinvigorated by the damage to Starfleet by the Marcus controversy two years before, and inspired by the incursion into Klingon space by Starfleet officers, the Klingons were testing the waters, launching raids on outlying systems and confronting cargo transports. They had yet to face a ship of the line, but for a system with as much strategic importance as Sigma Corolan, the sense of imminent conflict was unavoidable.

     It was three days to Corolan Prime, and as Jim gave his orders to Sulu and the briefing room emptied, the captain remained seated at the table, feeling suddenly tired, and slightly lost. The usual excitement that came with a new mission, especially one this delicate and important was nowhere to be found, and as Jim stared blankly at his PADD, he slowly became aware that Spock alone had not left, and indeed was standing across the table, hands held loosely at his sides, dark eyes guarded, watching him.

     Jim’s stomach clenched, and he shoved the PADD to the side, looking up at his first officer without meeting his eyes. He formed a professional-sounding query in his mind, but he couldn’t force it past his lips, and instead looked back down at the tabletop, staring at the polished surface. “I’m sorry.”

     Spock’s head tilted. “Captain, I... .”

     “No.” Jim made a slight movement with his hand. “For my distance. I never came to visit you in sickbay, or after, and I know you can tell that things are different. I owe you an explanation, at least. At least.” His voice trailed off, and he covered his eyes with one hand. “You had gotten the landing party away, and all of the colonists out of the area. The thing was contained; it couldn’t leave my body unless I was dead, and with the evacuation radius, it wouldn’t have been able to transfer.”

     Spock was silent, standing with a face still too pale and posture just a bit imperfect. Jim looked up at him, his face tortured. “You could have fired on my position with full phasers and taken care of it for good. But you didn’t. You came back for me, and for that thing, it was better than all its fucking birthdays come early.”

     The Vulcan’s voice was even. “I left orders that our position was to be destroyed if a certain window passed, or if either of us ceased to live.”

     Jim glared. “Orders which McCoy violated, by the way. Your life functions _ceased,_ and he beamed in with a fucking medical team.”

     Spock’s face paled even more. “You were able to utilize my communicator to inform the ship that the anomaly had been eliminated. Sensors would have confirmed that your person was no longer affected.”

     “It was a clusterfuck, Spock. That creature was a danger to the ship, and to the colony, and you should have pulled the fucking trigger when you had the chance.”

     The Vulcan’s shoulders straightened, but there was a tremor in his hands. “I assessed the situation, and deemed the probability of retrieving you to be worth the risk to myself. The ship was not in immediate danger, nor the colony. However, I accept your reprimand, Captain, and will... .”

     “Dammit!” Jim interrupted, slamming a fist onto the table. “The risk? How were your probabilities when you were lying on the ground, bleeding out, with my hands around your neck? When that creature was forcing me to say those horrible things to you? Making you feel its fucking lust and savagery and hatred through my hands? My hands, Spock! Making me feel you die. And you may have killed it, in the end. You may have used my own mind against it and destroyed it, but that only meant that I had to feel you die that way, too. Your mind, fading away, growing cold.” Jim stopped with a near sob, his hands shaking uncontrollably.

     “You don’t understand. I can’t see you, or touch you without remembering what I did to you. That it was my fault, because that thing knew how much... .” Jim broke off suddenly, unwilling and unable to go any further.

     Spock’s features were almost white, and he gripped the back of the chair in front of him with one hand. “It was not your fault, Jim. I accept responsibility for my actions. I could...could not... .” His hand slipped and he staggered to the side, falling suddenly. Jim shot out of his chair, slamming the intercom and yelling for a medical team before dropping to his knees next to his friend.

     “Spock?” He reached for a pulse, and found it, racing and featherlight, but there nonetheless beneath hot skin. And he allowed his hand to press against the Vulcan’s shoulder, gently, for the space of two breaths, before the doors slid open and a med team raced in, and Jim was forced to stand back, gripping his hand into a fist, fresh lines of fear etching his face.

 

 

 


	2. The Sum Of Us

Chapter Two: The Sum Of Us

 

     Jim stayed, this time, sitting in a chair next to his first officer’s bedside. He pretended to work on his PADD, focusing on it whenever a nurse entered the small isolation room. However, after the door slid shut, and they were alone again, he would watch his friend’s profile, assuring himself that the Vulcan still breathed by the gentle rise and fall of his chest, and daring to feel a hint of consolation before allowing his guilt and self-recrimination to rise again and averting his eyes.

_Green blood ran viscously onto the floor, and the thing exulted as Jim begged. The knife finally clattered away, and he knelt over his friend’s body, watching him struggle for breath, feeling Vulcan muscles tense and shudder as the stun beam wore off._

_Jim couldn’t stop his own hands from tightening around the pale neck, couldn’t help the litany of filth that poured from his mouth, couldn’t stop the cruel, obscene feelings that burst from the creature and were forced through his touch into Spock’s consciousness. He begged again, and heard only laughter, even as Spock’s hand rose in a last, desperate gesture, fingers fastening on Jim’s face._

 

     “Jim. Jim! Wake up, dammit.” The captain gasped awake, feeling hands gripping his shoulders, shaking him.

     He blinked rapidly, clearing the last of the sleep out of his eyes, and pushed the doctor’s hands away, his voice gruff. “I’m up. Jesus, Bones. How’s Spock?”

     McCoy had straightened, but worry still etched his face. “You okay?”

     Jim’s jaw tightened. “Yeah. How’s... ?”

     “Spock?” McCoy interrupted, still eyeing his friend. “He’ll be fine. Pushing himself too hard, as always, and some of the repairs to his lungs had ruptured. He’s back in a trance and his vitals are stabilizing, no need for surgery. He should be awake again in a couple hours.”

     Jim bit his lip, cautioning a glance over at his unmoving first officer. “It’s taking him longer to heal, isn’t it?”

     McCoy swallowed, staring at him, and then rubbed a hand over his forehead. “Jim, I don’t need to reiterate how badly he was hurt. We had to transfuse almost our entire stock of blood into him, and even then... .” He paused, the look on the captain’s face stopping him. He took a breath and continued, more gently. “But, yeah, Jim, you’re right. He should be completely healed by now, if past experience is anything to go by. I don’t know why he’s still so weak, why it’s taking so long.”

     Jim nodded, and stood awkwardly, clutching his PADD in his hand. “I’ve got to go to the bridge.”

     McCoy glanced pointedly at the chrono. “It’s the beginning of gamma; you were out for a while. Why don’t you get something to eat first?”

     “Sure,” Jim responded automatically, and he turned to the door, hearing McCoy mumble something unintelligible as it slid shut behind him. He went straight to the bridge.

 

 

 

     Jim spent several tense hours on the bridge, much to the consternation of the gamma shift officers, and then retreated to his quarters. The ambient noises always seemed quieter, overall, at this time of ship’s night, however illogical that seemed, and Jim sat down at his desk, listening. The hiss of air, the rumble of the engines, the soft mechanical sounds drifting from deck to deck. The barely-audible swish of the door in the next cabin caught his attention and Jim suddenly stood.

     He took two steps forward, towards their shared bathroom, before stopping, his hands in fists again, standing as if held captive, sensing several minutes drag past. The sense of reactive frustration that had forced his outburst in the briefing room had faded, and now he felt torn. There was something in him that had given way, as he had confronted his friend and then watched him fall, again, a primitive, terrified impulse. And when he had touched the Vulcan, however briefly, he hadn’t wanted to stop. He held out his hand in front of him, releasing his fists, watching his fingers shake. He felt the memories surging in his mind, felt his own helplessness and terror, the echoed pain as Spock’s shields had faltered. He raised his eyes to the closed bathroom door, knowing he had no right. And then he remembered the look in dark eyes, the movement of a hand. And he realized that he may have no right, but now he had no choice. It had been his decision to stay away, but twice Spock had come to him, and now it was his turn. Taking a deep breath, and closing his fists once more, he walked into the bathroom, stepping through the small space and knocking quietly on the opposite door.

     It opened almost too quickly, as if Spock had known him to be standing there, and Jim considered that, with Vulcan hearing, perhaps he had. The lights were dimmed, and the temperature was elevated, as usual, and Spock was sitting cross-legged on the floor next to his desk, his meditation mat laid out beneath him, wearing a dark Vulcan-style tunic over his uniform trousers, his feet bare. He looked up at Jim evenly, his dark eyes almost black against the pallor of his skin. Jim hesitated and then pulled off his own boots and socks, walking forward to sit in a mirrored pose in front of his friend, his hands on his knees.

     They watched each other for long moments, and Jim swallowed. “I’m sorry. For what I said in the briefing room about you coming after me.”

     Spock’s shoulders rose and fell with a breath. “You would have done the same for me.”

     “I know.” Jim’s eyes were sad. “And you would have hated yourself for what happened, as I do now.”

     “It would not be logical to do so,” Spock replied, his voice almost too soft for Jim to hear, “but you are most likely correct.” He tilted his head. “Would that scenario have come to pass, however, you would not have accepted my self-recrimination and my distance.”

     “I would have come to you.”

     There was a silence, and Spock raised a hand, holding it just above his lap before reaching out the short distance to Jim’s, and letting his fingers barely brush against the human’s skin. “You would have reached out to me. You would have attempted to demonstrate that my touch is still cherished.”

     Jim closed his eyes, feeling the heat from the Vulcan’s hand, and the corresponding warmth blossom in his mind. It had always been so, whenever they had touched. He felt wetness on his cheek, and turned his hand so that their palms touched, his eyes still closed, tightly. The warmth grew, and he knew Spock’s shields had fallen, and he sensed everything that he had read in his friend’s eyes, and it was at once overwhelming and terrifying, and he pulled his hand away, tears now openly in his eyes. “I don’t deserve that. What we were, whatever we were, I don’t deserve it now. You died by my hand, if not by my will, and I can’t get the image out of my head, or the blood off my hands.”

     He had reached to push himself up, to leave, and Spock’s hand snapped out to grip his wrist with brutal strength. “I do not accept that.”

     Jim gasped at the force on his wrist, just this side of painful, and his eyes were drawn to his friend’s, wide and dark and full of determination. “We shared a link, Jim.”

     “What?” It was but a whisper, and Spock’s grip suddenly disappeared, and Jim could see that he was shaking.

     “My mind resonates with yours. A link had formed as our friendship had developed, as you had touched me and I had accepted your touch. It was how I could combat the creature within you so effectively. The link apparently broke with the mental effort of expelling the creature from your consciousness. It is only now, with your enforced absence, that I recognized my prior reliance on it, this connection with you.” His eyes searched Jim’s. “I find that your presence, your closeness, is essential to me. Particularly in the immediate absence of my people, and in the absence of a mate.”

     “Is that why it’s taking longer for you to heal?”

     Spock dropped his eyes. “I do not know.”

     Jim knew he was breathing hard, a feeling of desperation threatening to overtake him. His voice was choppy, harsh. “Spock, I can’t just forget. I can’t just forgive myself and forget. It’s still too vivid, the pain, and the fear. I can’t sleep at night.”

     The Vulcan was silent for a moment, and then raised his hand again. “May I have your thoughts?”

     Jim’s entire body tensed, but he nodded. “Yes.” And he felt the press of fingers against his psi points and as he fell into the meld he whispered, “I’m sorry.”

_The crash of his friend’s mind against his was deafening, and the creature howled as it strained at the boundaries of Jim’s mind. It wouldn’t let go, and he felt his hands involuntarily tighten even further, fingers digging into skin, the coppery smell of blood mingling with the scent of Jim’s own terror._

_There was a chill, and he sensed his friend release his tenuous hold on his own body in order to fight, fully, for Jim’s mind. And Jim felt the creature gurgle and die, and then felt his friend’s body go limp, Spock’s thoughts growing dim and fading away as his hand fell, and Jim gasped for breath, regaining his functions and realizing there was nothing left but sickening loss._

 

_He had the presence of mind to grab for Spock’s communicator and cry out for help, and he fumbled at the wounds in his friend’s chest, trying to stem the flow of blood. He was weak, and confused, and he heard someone screaming, and didn’t realize it was himself until he heard rapid footsteps approaching and he was dragged away from his friend’s body. He struggled, weakly, seeing half-closed, unseeing brown eyes, and then a hypo hissed against his neck, and everything went dark._

 

     “No.” His voice broke on the word, and tears streamed down his cheeks as the meld broke, and Spock’s fingers left his face. The Vulcan’s expression was anguished, his eyes full of Jim’s pain, and he clasped his hands together in front of him, his breathing rapid and shallow. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Jim whispered.

     “Your pain is great.” Spock’s voice held a tremor. “I know of such pain, such experience of responsibility, such sense of failure. I ask you again not to turn from me.”

     “Your planet wasn’t your fault.”

     “And neither is this yours. We are together, again, are we not? Would you deny me my friend? My brother?”

     Jim’s head ached, and his chest was tight with remembered grief and wrenching guilt, but he blinked and shook his head mutely. And he felt Spock grip his hand, sensing a surge of raw emotion stream through their touch, _reassurance, forgiveness, understanding, love,_ all the terrifying, exhilarating sensations washing over him with undeniable certainty.

     “I won’t turn away again. I promise.” Jim clasped his other hand over his friend’s. “I don’t know how to live with this, but I will, somehow.”

     “ _T’hy’la_.” Spock’s face was still pale, but his grip was firm and sure, and Jim stayed with him as he meditated, keeping their hands clasped, feeling the pulse of his friend’s mind complement his own, finding a degree of lingering peace amidst the continuing turmoil of his memories.

 

 


	3. Another Eden

Chapter Three: Another Eden

 

   The _Enterprise_ arrived at Sigma Corolan Prime on schedule, and Jim was feeling more alert than he had since Darumar. He had finally been able to sleep, lying alongside his first officer in a cramped bunk, sweating through his t-shirt and boxers and not minding the three glasses of water he had guzzled upon awakening. Somehow, the warm, solid, breathing presence of his friend and the gentle brush of their minds had allowed him to temporarily escape his purgatory of self-recrimination. The nightmares still threatened, but had not returned, and Spock had exhibited marked physical improvement. Jim had not told McCoy anything except that he had spoken to the Vulcan, and the doctor had been puzzled, but pleased, at both men’s recovery, and had cleared them both for landing party duty.

     They had lost much, however: the easy banter, the casual touches, the soft brush of their shoulders as they moved through the ship’s corridors, Jim’s brilliant smiles, Spock’s indulgent eyebrow. Spock’s eyes still followed his captain, always, but the expression in their depths held sadness, and Jim still shied away from any true resumption of normalcy, his guilt and pain still burning a hole inside of him, the sense of loss still pervasive and inescapable.

     The landing party, led by the command team, also included McCoy, Nyota, Lieutenant Lia Morrow, a xenoanthropologist, and Lieutenant Commander Chris Perry, a geologist, in addition to two security officers. They arrived on the shuttle _Arroway_ in an isolated section of wooded high ground near the largest populated area, also, conveniently, adjacent to one of the largest dilithium deposits on the planet, setting up several working and sleeping tents, and a camouflaging perimeter field. The _Enterprise_ would be maintaining a stationary position at the far side of the single moon, in order to avoid both the possibility of planetary discovery by abandoned Klingon technology as well as to thwart long-range enemy scans of orbital positions. It meant, of course, that transporters would not be functional.

     Jim surveyed the small clearing, noting the visual glimmer along the edges where the field was activated. The planet, and especially this locale, was breathtakingly beautiful. Here, the climate was warm, with just a touch of humidity, and the high-altitude forest grew thick and lush around them. They were on the approaching edge of a large mountain range, and a valley stretched out beneath them. The large settlement, nestled in the valley, had been a rural farming community, settled into a makeshift industrial city during the Klingon occupation with the forced consolidation of the population into centers proximal to the mineral deposits. Dilithium mined from nearby operations in the mountains was transported in bulk to the city, where preliminary processing took place. The sprawling mass of crude buildings appeared gray and dark, a smudge against the verdant background. Tracks and roadways had begun to grow over, to be reclaimed by nature, but the scars of the past years were still very much visible.

     “Captain.” Spock’s smooth voice cut through Jim’s musings, and the captain turned to face his first officer. The Vulcan was dressed in a dark gray t-shirt, heavy hiking pants and boots. They had all replaced their standard Starfleet uniforms upon leaving the ship, and even the shuttle had been stripped of insignia and identifying marks. Jim’s eyes drifted over his friend’s exposed neck; the bruises had completely faded, and any remaining weakness was either gone, or well hidden beneath Vulcan control.

     “Yes, Mr. Spock.”

     “All equipment has been offloaded and is being calibrated, sir. Long-range uplink with the ship’s computer system is enabled. Our activities thus far appear not to have been noticed by the planetary inhabitants, and the latest information from Starfleet intelligence reports that there has been no response from the Klingon Empire regarding our passage into this system.”

     Jim grunted. “Maybe we got away with sneaking in.”

     Spock merely looked at him, and the captain averted his gaze. “Let’s get everyone in the main tent for a briefing about what’s expected tomorrow. We’ve only got about an hour of daylight left and I’ll want an early start.”

     “Yes, sir.” Jim felt dark eyes linger on him for a handful of seconds, and then the Vulcan turned back towards the center of the clearing.

 

 

 

     The briefing came and went, and Jim ordered a quick meal and an early turn-in for his officers. He himself sat on his bunk, his PADD unnoticed in his hands, staring at his first officer’s empty cot on the other side of the tent they shared. Spock had remained in the main tent to help Nyota with a comms calibration, and Jim’s jaw tightened as he felt a strange sense of _alone_ permeate the surrounding space.

     It was something he had noticed when he had woken in sickbay, right after being beamed up from the surface of Darumar. When he had woken with his clothes and skin still sticky with his friend’s blood, and could see and hear the frantic resuscitation efforts in the IC unit across the room. He remembered standing, feeling a harsh headache, a strange sense of exhaustion weighing his limbs down, vertigo threatening to force his collapse. He had felt alone, deeply alone, and afraid as he had stumbled closer to the noise and activity in the unit. He hadn’t understood at the time, but now, with Spock’s revelation of a weak link between them, perhaps it made more sense.

     An involuntary shudder wracked his body as he remembered the sharp beep of the cardio stimulator, the barked speech of the nurses, the sound of McCoy’s voice yelling at Spock to hold on. And he remembered holding his hands out in front of him, his breath coming in shallow gasps, the room spinning and himself falling again into unconsciousness. He looked at his hands again now, the PADD fallen to his side, forgotten. And he felt the panic threaten to rise, his vision start to swim, and then the door to the tent opened and Spock walked in, sealing the entrance behind him. The Vulcan’s eyes fastened on his captain and he stepped towards him, almost involuntarily. “Jim.”

     The captain fought to regain his composure. “I didn’t know. Spock, I didn’t know.”

     His first officer was suddenly in front of him, kneeling on the synth mat covering the ground. “I do not understand.”

     Jim grimaced. “It hit me when I realized we might not be able to...to... .” He waved a hand in the direction of Spock’s cot. “The last couple nights, I’ve only been able to sleep knowing that you were there, as if I needed that immediate awareness. And I think it might be because we lost that link between us. Every time I think about Darumar and that thing...and you...I subconsciously reach for something that isn’t there, and it makes me feel everything all over again.”

     Spock’s eyes had grown slightly unfocused, and he was silent for a moment before his gaze sharpened and he stared into Jim’s eyes with renewed intensity. “The link was spontaneously created, and, I believed, weak. I did not consider that the loss of it would have affected you so significantly.”

     “I can’t stop grieving, even though I can see you. I can’t stop blaming myself for your loss, even though you are right in front of me.” Jim stopped, realizing he wasn’t making much sense.

     Spock gazed at him, and his hand rose, brushing two fingers over one of Jim’s hands, closed into a fist on his lap. When he spoke, his voice was soft, and almost reverent. “If it was a true bond, then the situation is quite different. In my culture, it is not simply a physical crime to do harm to one’s bondmate. It also does irreparable damage to the mental bond, to the point of severing it. This action often causes the aggressor to be damaged as well, with the stress of a torn connection. I had assumed that my mental attack on the creature destroyed the link we shared, but perhaps some blame may lie on the manner with which its assault was carried out.”

     Jim stared at him. “You mean, because I hurt you, I caused the link to break?”

     “I do not know.” Spock continued the delicate, almost tender strokes across Jim’s hand. “I would not have classified our connection as a bond, before, but perhaps it had strengthened in the same manner in which it formed. Its severing would explain your continued irrational belief in your own guilt, as well as your intense physical reactions to memories of the incident.” He lowered his eyes. “And a severed bond would explain my inability to effectively heal.”

     Jim looked down at the gentle touch, feeling some of his tension dissolve almost against his will, letting his hand relax slightly. “And that’s why I need your presence, because I can’t feel it in my mind anymore, even if I didn’t know what it was.” He looked back into brown eyes. “What do we do now?”

     “The link will form again, given time and touch. Or, I can initiate it deliberately, now. This may serve to allay some of your symptoms.”

     Jim chuckled darkly. “You mean, keep me from turning into an emotional wreck whenever you’re not there to hold my hand.”

     Spock’s eyes held a hint of sadness. “It would suffice for you to acknowledge that the violence was not your doing. To understand that I could feel your mind, fighting the influence of the creature, that I could sense your anger and fear, and...your depth of emotion.”

     “You felt that I love you, didn’t you?” Jim’s breath caught as the words tumbled from his mouth almost without his own volition. It was something he had never said; never before acknowledged between them, openly.

     Spock’s eyes lowered again, and his fingers stilled against Jim’s skin. The captain leaned forward. “I can’t forgive myself. I can’t forget what I did.” He paused. “What the creature did, with my hands, with my body. To the one person I cherish above all others. It’s not something that I think I’ll ever get over. But if you would consider rebuilding that link, I’ll try to be worthy of it, and of you.”

     Spock’s dark eyes rose to meet his, and they held hope. Jim opened his hand and turned it over, allowing their fingers to touch. “Will it still be a link, this time? Or will it be a bond?”

     “It could be either. A bond would be of more significance and depth. It may prove to be exclusive.”

     Jim let their fingers stroke past each other, almost absently. For all their intimacy in other ways, they had never been together, physically. And, even now, it was hard for him to consider, the pain of Darumar still too fresh. “What do you want?”

     The corners of Spock’s lips rose just a fraction. “I would have you as my bondmate, Jim.”

     “I don’t know if I can touch you like that, after... .” Jim swallowed. “I need time. But if you’ll have me, even now, I would be yours.” His voice broke. “Of course I’m yours. Anything, Spock. My life, if necessary.”

     “And now you understand why I went back for you.” There was an earnestness to his voice that sent a frisson of anticipation down Jim’s spine. “May I have your thoughts?”

     “Yes.”

     And when Spock’s fingers found Jim’s psi points, he didn’t so much as fall into the meld as leap into it, and this time he sensed Spock’s search, his own surprise as they witnessed together the dark, shifting blankness where their link, their bond, used to be. And they rebuilt it together, stronger, brilliant, light against the darkness, a calm against the storm. And when the meld broke, Jim smiled, feeling the emptiness, the ambiguous sense of _alone_ vanishing. The reassurance he felt as he had lain next to his friend’s warmth was now held in his mind, and he could find his balance, again. The memories were still there, still frightening, but they did not control him, and he focused on their connection, feeling the love and loyalty of his new bondmate surrounding him.

     Much later, they lay together on one of the cots, Jim’s body pressed along his friend’s back, his forehead resting against a shoulder blade, one arm thrown around the Vulcan’s waist. They were both still fully clothed, the intimacy of their mental connection powerful and comfortable and safe. Jim’s eyes were closed, listening to the evenness of Spock’s breathing, feeling the warmth of his body, and the gentle ebb and flow of his mind, open along the new bond and in such close proximity. Their connection was whole, and even stronger; permanent and, he hoped, would be exclusive. He felt the memories boil at the back of his mind and consciously turned them away. In the new clarity and peace of their restored union, he could recognize that the greatest tragedy would have been for them to lose each other, even as life had gone on for them both.

 

 


	4. Another Serpent

Chapter Four: Another Serpent

 

     Three days later, Jim sat at the large folding table in the middle of the main tent, a stylus in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. Across the table, Lieutenant Commander Perry waited for the captain’s nod and then began his report summary.

     “Long-range compositional and structural analysis completed, Captain. All dilithium deposits identified and classified according to accessibility.” He cleared his throat. “It looks like the Klingons were getting most of their dilithium from a secondary deposit on the opposite side of the planet, using mostly automated equipment. The deposit near our location, here, was a bit harder to process: a lot of carbon contamination. They mainly, as far as I can tell, used it as a way to keep the local population in line. They were sent here as a penal camp, or at least that what it looks like from the remaining structures and collection setup.”

     Jim furrowed his brow, exchanging a glance with Bones, and Perry continued, “The concentrations of the mineral are extraordinary. The entire Empire’s dilithium requirements could have been maintained from this planet alone.” He paused, concern etching his features. “In my opinion, sir, their willingness to re-take the planet can only be underestimated at this point.”

     The captain nodded and made a note on his PADD. “Thank you, Mr. Perry.” He glanced at the doctor. “General population health report, Doctor McCoy?”

     Bones raised an eyebrow and shifted in his seat, addressing the assembled officers, “My scans and calculations indicate that the population is in serious decline. Comparison with survey data from the initial scan by the _Potemkin_ twenty-five years ago indicates that the total population has declined by over forty percent. Illness rates have skyrocketed and the political instability has led to high numbers of casualties lost to violence and infighting. The inhabitants are very similar to humans in their physiology and life expectancy, and almost everyone over the age of fifty is dead. They’re in bad shape, Jim.”

     Jim felt his first officer’s eyes on him. “Mr. Spock?”

     “Yes, Captain. Environmental studies indicate that the major fresh water supplies near the primary population centers contain significant pollution. The concentration of compounds known to be carcinogenic amongst the inhabitants has increased drastically in the past twenty-five years. Additionally, high levels of heavy metals in the soils surrounding Klingon mining sites threaten the traditional practice of farming.” The Vulcan tilted his head. “And, finally, the Klingon occupation proved to be quite damaging to the native fauna: there has been a fifty-nine percent extinction rate amongst higher animals, centered around locations most heavily involved in mining activity.”

     Jim winced, but turned to Morrow. “Lieutenant?”

     She nodded, her cheeks coloring slightly. “Yes, Captain. The cultural development is stagnating, at best. The practice of art and music has all but ceased, and the populace is merely subsisting, focusing on the practice of a religion centering on the Klingons as demons sent to test the will of the people. While the cultural trauma of the past two decades has acted to centralize the population, it has also proven to promote violent radicalism in the name of a deity. I have found evidence for killings of inhabitants who do not follow the religion, or who demonstrate differences from enforced societal patterns. If you choose to initiate contact, sir, this may be a significant problem.”

     Nyota raised her hand. “Captain, my analysis of the linguistic development supports the previous reports. The populace has restricted themselves to a single, primary language, with the other global dialects all but extinct.” Her dark eyes were sad. “It’s a tragedy, sir.”

     “Agreed.” Jim met his officers’ eyes and then glanced down at his PADD. “Overall, I would say that this planet is in dire need of Federation protection and assistance. I’m going to request additional medical, humanitarian, and security support immediately, and I’ll be initiating contact with the local chieftain this afternoon.”

     Jim could almost feel Spock’s indrawn breath and he turned to meet the Vulcan’s brown eyes. “Mr. Spock, you’ll be in command here. I’ll take one security guard and Lieutenant Uhura as translator.”

     McCoy shook his head, leaning forward. “It’s a big risk, Jim. You’ll be outnumbered, and we won’t be able to just beam you out of there.”

     “I understand, Bones, but contact will have to be made at some point, sooner rather than later, and a small group will be far less threatening.”

     McCoy’s scowl deepened and he crossed his arms over his chest, but did not object, and Jim nodded succinctly. “So that’s the plan, everyone. We’ll be heading out at fifteen hundred local. Be ready.”

     There was a muted chorus of “Yes, sir,” and Jim stood, picking up his PADD and heading for the exit to the tent. He sensed his first officer fall into step behind him, and they headed across the clearing to their smaller, shared, sleeping tent. The captain dropped his PADD on his bunk and turned to face his bondmate.

     The business of the past three days had meant that they had not spent much time together, aside from sleeping, but Jim felt almost completely different with the bond in place. The frantic memories were not so harsh and immediate, and the constant, almost imperceptible presence of his friend’s mind was soothing and reassuring. Jim realized how he had missed the existence of a link in the first place; it was not obvious, nor striking, but more of a background feeling of wellbeing. And when Spock was close to him, Jim could feel the soft wash of his emotions and thoughts, controlled and measured, gently flowing across their connection. They had not touched beyond an innocent stroke of hands, or beyond the press of their clothed bodies at night, but Jim imagined that their mental connection was more intimate than sex with another ever had been. He was still tentative, still felt flashes of guilt and raw fear, but overall he felt like himself again, with Spock at his side. He had even started to smile. 

     Now, Jim reached forward, two fingers extended in the Vulcan expression of intimacy, and allowed his lips to curl upwards at the sight of his bondmate reaching back to press their fingers together, dark eyes brightening. Affection and warmth swept across the bond as they touched, followed by subdued anxiety, and Jim hoped his tone was reassuring. “I’ll be fine.”

     Spock’s fingers brushed along the human’s. “Ensure that you are, Jim.”

     Jim’s smile faded as he watched their hands together. “Would you be able to feel it, if I’m not?”

     Dark eyes intensified. “I would.”

     Blue eyes rose to meet them. “So, you’ll know.”

     “I would prefer to accompany you.” Spock’s voice was even, but there was a sharp undertone.

     Jim’s eyes hardened, but he adjusted his hand, clasping his friend’s fully. “I know. But I need you here.” He knew that Spock could sense Jim’s own emotions and unspoken thoughts across their contact, knew that his stubborn, and very human motivation to keep the Vulcan safe was perceptible.

     Spock stared at him, and Jim could feel his friend’s inner turmoil. He saw a muscle in Spock’s jaw tense and the Vulcan stepped even closer, keeping their hands clasped. Jim could feel his friend’s warmth, could smell his familiar scent, and he only had time for a single indrawn breath before a warm mouth pressed against his own, softly, but with a deliberateness that forced Jim’s eyes to close and his lips to part. His body relaxed as that mouth gently moved over his own, chastely, belying the electric sensation that ran down Jim’s spine.

     The warmth was suddenly gone, as Spock pulled away, releasing Jim’s hand and stepping back, his dark eyes wide and full of turbulent emotion. The captain stood, his mouth still slightly open, his hand barely outstretched, as the Vulcan turned and left the tent, the flap sealing after him.

 

 

 

     Three hours later Jim stood in a dark, dirty room. In front of him, seated behind a large desk, was the settlement chieftain and another man, dressed in long, black robes, identified only as a religious official, both flanked by armed guards. Jim’s senses were on high alert, and he forced his expression into one of casual authority as Nyota, standing next to him, finished the intricate standard greeting.

     The people of Corolan Prime called themselves the Shrivth, or, roughly translated, ‘the beloved of the most high’. They were strikingly similar, in outward appearance, to humans, though their skin tended to have a barely perceptible opalescent sheen due to a covering of almost microscopically fine hair, and the predominant eye color was deep lavender. Physiologically, though they shared the trait of iron-rich red blood, they were not as strong as humans, nor could well-tolerate extremes in temperature, but they had fast reflexes, sharp senses, and a generous lung capacity. The chieftain was roughly Jim’s age, with surprisingly similar blue eyes. He returned Nyota’s greeting perfunctorily, and glanced to the side at his companion, who gazed challengingly at the captain with dull, pale purple irises.

     Jim nodded, and began to speak. Slowly, and deliberately, following the general script he and Nyota had prepared earlier, he outlined a plan for an alliance with the Federation, speaking of the types of aid that would be available, and the protection that Starfleet could provide. He emphasized the difference in philosophies between the Klingons and the Federation, and described the threat of a resurgent Empire. Nyota translated, her words as slow and careful as Jim’s, but the expression of the chieftain grew ever more forbidding, and towards the end of Nyota’s last sentence, he cut her off with a sharp wave of one long fingered hand, responding in a flurry of angry tones that made the communications officer’s eyes widen and the security guard, standing to the other side of the captain, tense.

     Nyota took a breath, and translated, “We deny you access. We do not wish for interference. We are not slaves, and will be slaves no more.”

     Jim held up a hand. “Please, we can provide aid to your people, food for the starving, medicine for the sick. We are not conquerors, but we can act as protectors.”

     The response was even angrier, and the chieftain stood, followed by the other official. “Be gone. We do not want you here. You are evil, as they were evil. We deny you access.”

     Jim knew to trust his instincts, and he raised both hands, backing away. “We shall leave you as we came, in peace.” Summoning his courage, he kept walking backwards to the door, gesturing Nyota and the guard out first, before following. As he left, he noticed the dark robed figure leave by a side exit, almost too hastily. Alarm bells rang in Jim’s head, and, once outside, he motioned for his companions to hurry.

 

 

 

     The captain waited until they were past the main area of the settlement and clear of the local population to pull out his communicator. “Kirk to Spock.”

     The reply was instantaneous. “Spock here.”

     “The meeting was a no-go. How’s the camp?”

     “Prepped and loaded, sir. We will be ready to depart as soon as you return.”

     Jim stretched his legs as they moved into the low hills on the outskirts of the makeshift buildings, increasing their pace. “ETA twenty-five minutes.”

     “Yes, sir. I have you on scanners. No sign of pursuit.”

     “Keep eyes-on. Kirk out.” Jim exchanged a glance with Nyota. “That was a good idea to have everything packed to go. Pessimistic, but good.”

     She gave him a half-smile. “I knew the odds weren’t good when they have twenty-six different obscenities associated with ‘alien’.” Her breathing was rapid as they pushed the pace. “But, thanks, Captain.”

     Jim smiled back at her, but his expression was tight.

 

 

 

     The shuttle was ready and waiting as Jim, Nyota, and the security guard burst through into the clearing. Spock was standing next to the side door, speaking into his communicator, and Jim, aware of the subtleties of Vulcan expression, could tell immediately that he was alarmed. The captain jogged forward, and Spock’s voice was clipped as he handed Jim the unit. “Mr. Sulu reports that long-range scanners are picking up multiple contacts coming in at high warp from Klingon space. ETA ten minutes.”

     Jim grabbed the communicator, motioning the others to board the shuttle and moving after them. “Kirk here, Mr. Sulu, we’re departing now and we’ll push for a hot entry. Have weapons and shields ready to go as soon as we’re on board, and get the warp engines prepped for a rapid exit. I don’t want a fight.” He swung himself into the pilot’s seat and hit the button for airlock.

     “Yes, sir. Shuttlebay ready to receive you.”

     “Keep us informed. Kirk out.”

     Spock, next to him in the co-pilot’s seat, had the engines already warmed, and Jim glanced behind him. “All set?”

     “Let’s get the hell out of here, Jim.” McCoy was seated immediately behind Spock, Nyota next to the doctor.

     Jim nodded and punched the launch sequence, and seconds later they were rising into the clear blue sky, climbing fast.

     The intercom crackled. “Enterprise to _Arroway,_ stand by on approach! Enemy vessels dropping out of warp. We’re counting...four hunter-seekers and a bird of prey. We’ve got shields up, Captain, I don’t think we can bring you on board!”

     Jim’s jaw tightened. “Get my ship out of there, Mr. Sulu. Retreat and contact Starfleet Command. We’ll hold out here.”

     There was a loud burst of static, and Jim heard Sulu’s raised voice. “All power to the warp engines. Prepare for emergency departure. Stand by on... .” The static hissed again and the channel went dead.

     Jim exchanged a glance with Spock and his hands flew over the controls. “All hands prepare for emergency landing.” He heard restraints being tightened behind him and banked the shuttle hard over, making for the ground.

     Spock’s voice was sharp. “Enemy vessel descending on an intercept course, sir. Approaching on mark thirty-two, high impulse. They are locking weapons!”

     “Hold on!” Jim slammed the controls in a series of stomach-dropping evasive maneuvers, hearing Spock call out weapons lock and vectors. He gritted his teeth as a blast skimmed the starboard side, shaking the craft, muttering, “They’re shooting to kill.”

     “Captain, we’re at three thousand meters and dropping.” Spock paused, and Jim suddenly felt the bond flare at the back of his mind, opening up and allowing Spock’s immediate thoughts to pour through, aided by their close physical proximity.

     A plan coalesced, and Jim glanced down at the topographic display. “Can we make it?”

     “Accelerate to point six; on my mark I will cut in emergency power.”

     “Let’s do it.”

     The engines whined, and two more blasts buffeted the craft as Jim adjusted airspeed and made directly for the mountain range, the Klingon craft in hot pursuit. The silence from the rear of the shuttle was broken by a cry from Morrow as a sheer rock face loomed abruptly in the viewscreen.

     “Weapons lock, sir. Four seconds. Three. Two. One. Mark.”

     Jim’s hands flew, and Spock engaged the auxiliaries, and the craft banked in a sharp ninety-degree upward motion. The shriek of a torpedo was heard from behind and below them and the back of the craft was suddenly blown apart. Jim heard screams from behind him, and the next second there was a deafening explosion as the pursuing hunter-seeker plowed into the cliff face. Alarms blared, and the cabin was suddenly filled with acrid smoke and the screech of air escaping from the rear, now open to the wind.

     Jim pulled the controls over, breaking out of the steep climb, and the craft shuddered as a secondary explosion sounded. “We have lost port-side control; twenty seconds of power left.” Spock’s voice was a shout, and barely heard over the rush of wind, and Jim frantically searched the viewscreen for a landing spot.

     He saw something: a faint green patch of grass separating a thick forest from the edge of a dangerous ravine. Spock’s hands were a blur as he attempted to balance power, and Jim swore under his breath as the shuttle fought his control. Ten seconds. Another explosion suddenly ripped the panel open next to Jim’s face and he felt a sharp impact on the side of his head. Everything swam, and he heard someone yelling, and then it all went dark.

 

 


	5. A Choice Already Made

Chapter Five: A Choice Already Made

 

     Jim was aware of pain and intense nausea, and opened his eyes to the realization that he was hanging upside-down in his restraints, blood dripping from his nose and from a deep cut on the side of his head. The viewscreen was dark, and he turned his head slightly to take in a combination of daylight and amber emergency lighting illuminating the wrecked craft. Behind him, the rear of the _Arroway_ was ripped open in a grotesque shearing of metal and plastisteel, and the rear set of seats was missing. Worse, the body of one of the young security guards still hung from his restraints, eyes wide and staring, a jagged chunk of metal through his chest. Jim shut his eyes as his stomach heaved, and struggled weakly, hands fumbling at the closure of the shoulder straps. He couldn’t focus, and his hands were shaking, and he stopped, gasping for breath as the craft seemed to spin around him.

     There was suddenly a scuffing noise, and the sound of rocks hitting the outside of the craft, and a familiar figure swung in from the gaping opening, moving quickly and determinedly forward to where Jim hung, helpless.

     “Spock.” His voice was only a whisper, and he felt himself held and steadied by Vulcan strength as his restraints were released. The bond came abruptly alive with urgency and desperate worry as they touched, and his first officer gently supported him, mindful of his aching body, half-carrying him towards the rear.

     “Jim. We have to move. Now. The engines are unstable and are in the process of overload. All other surviving crewmembers are moving to a safe distance.”

     “Who?” Jim gasped out the question, but the Vulcan did not answer. Balancing Jim against his side, he leaned forward against the sharp metal, reaching for a standard-issue rescue rope dangling against a wall of rock that had become visible outside the craft.

     “Jim, can you hold on to me?” It was phrased as a question, but the captain knew it was an order. He could now hear the high-pitched whine of the building overload, and could smell the sickening sweetness of escaped coolant. Grunting with the effort, he forced himself to hook his arms around his first officer’s shoulders. Spock carefully stepped out onto the rock, finding footholds unerringly, grasping the rope with both hands. Sending reassurance over their bond, he began to move up, away from the shuttle wreckage, and Jim blinked, daring to look down, and then up.

     The shuttlecraft had apparently plummeted over the edge of the steep ravine near the landing spot he had been aiming for, landing a good twenty meters down, wedged between several jutting rocks. Below, a crashing mountain river cut through the narrowing ravine, rushing away in sheets of bubbling white water. Above, Jim could follow the rope with his eyes, and, as they climbed, the bruised face of McCoy came slowly into focus. Spock moved quickly and smoothly, and they were just over two meters below the edge when the Vulcan stopped suddenly, alarm flashing over the bond. And then Jim heard it, the whine had intensified, and he could almost feel the pulsing waves of heat being released from the overheating core. He heard Spock yell a warning, felt an iron grip on his upper arm, and felt a mind-numbing wave of apology, love, and determination rush through their contact as he felt himself suddenly propelled upwards in a desperate act of Vulcan strength, landing directly into McCoy and falling backward away from the edge just as a deafening explosion sounded from below them. The rock beneath their feet shook, and the smell of smoke hung in the air, and Jim pushed away from his friend with an anguished noise, his heart racing, his mind screaming, crawling to the very edge just in time to see the remaining wreckage of the shuttle disappear into the raging river below. And of Spock, there was no sign.

     “No.” It was a hoarse whisper, and he felt McCoy’s hands on his shoulders, pain blossoming in his chest, his mind racing, reaching, searching.

     “Jim. We’ve got to get to cover.”

     “No!” His voice was louder, and he tried to struggle away from his friend’s grip, a well of grief, disbelief, and confusion threatening to swallow him.

     “He’s gone, Jim. We’ve got to move.”

     Jim let out a strangled noise, his eyes searching the rock, the water, and he felt McCoy’s hands tighten, forcing him around. “Captain! We’ve got to go. Right now.” The use of his title jarred him, and he allowed himself to be pulled up and towards the edge of the thick forest. 

     Morrow and Nyota were huddled immediately inside the thick overhanging branches, behind the first line of old trees and clusters of hardy bushes. Their clothes were torn and filthy, and Morrow was visibly shivering, her eyes wide. Two survival packs lay at their feet. Nyota’s gaze fastened on Jim as McCoy half-dragged him over to sit against a fallen log, pulling a medkit from his belt and raising his scanner.

     “Spock?” Her voice was almost a plea, and Jim couldn’t look at her, couldn’t acknowledge her. He heard her sob, and bowed his head, the ache in his chest expanding relentlessly throughout his body. He wanted to scream, or hit something, or cry. He felt the blood pulsing in his ears and simply sat.

     “Jim? You’ve got a nasty concussion. I’m going to give you something that should make you feel better.” McCoy loaded a hypo and pressed it against Jim’s neck, and Jim swallowed, feeling the nausea and vertigo fade, and his headache recede. The doctor continued to work, using a portable regenerator to close the wound in Jim's head. The captain forced himself to look up, and met the eyes of the other officers, staring at him. He saw fear, and near-panic, and then something clicked in his mind and he pulled his command persona around him like a shield.

     “Equipment status?”

     Nyota’s face was wet with tears, but she replied steadily, “We all still have our phasers and communicators, sir. Two survival packs with enough supplies to last for five to seven days, one working tricorder, and Doctor McCoy’s medkit.”

     “Okay.” Jim started to nod, but stopped as pain flared. “Uhura, try the encrypted emergency channel. I’m almost certain the ship isn’t in range, but let’s cover all our bases. Morrow, get on the tricorder and scan our location. I want to know if we’re going to expect company.”

     The two women acknowledged, and Morrow fumbled in one of the packs for the tricorder. Jim glanced at McCoy, lowering his voice. “The shuttle is gone. They won’t be able to tell how many of us it took with it; maybe we’ll get lucky and they’ll assume we’re all dead.” As he said it, he cringed internally, and he could tell his hands were shaking.

     McCoy looked at him, a sad expression on his face. “Sure, Jim.”

     “There’s no response, Captain.” Nyota flipped the communicator shut. “I may be able to modify the unit to broadcast an encrypted intermittent distress signal on that channel, but it’ll take some doing, and I can’t do it on the run.”

     Morrow flipped a switch. “Sir, we appear to be clear. No other Klingon vessels or life signs in the immediate vicinity.”

     Jim shifted, getting to his feet with effort, focusing on the pain to avoid his thoughts drifting to the unthinkable. “Let’s keep moving. I want to get away from this area, in case they do decide to look, and maybe get somewhere more defensible.” The rest of the bedraggled party rose as well, and Jim took the tricorder from Morrow, glancing at the topographic readout and heading west, McCoy hovering at his side, and the women following.

 

_He was standing over his friend’s body. Too pale, appearing almost bloodless, tubes running into his arms and a breathing apparatus covering the lower part of his face, supplementing his oxygen as his damaged lungs struggled. It was crushing, this sense of guilt, of responsibility. Spock had warned him that there was something amiss on the colony, that the scans were reading an extra energetic pulse of unidentifiable origin. But Jim had insisted on going himself, anyway._

_And the guilt rose, and the pain spread, and his chest was collapsing...and then he felt a strange, gentle presence on the edge of his mind. Familiar, soothing, faint. He dove towards it, daring to hope, daring to imagine... ._

 

     Jim shot awake, jarring McCoy’s body in the process, causing the doctor to grunt and shift, blinking his eyes open to take in Jim’s barely visible form in the darkness of their small survival tent. “What the fuck, Jim? You okay?”

     “He’s alive, Bones.” There was undeniable truth behind Jim’s fervent whisper.

     “McCoy shifted again, sitting up fully, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “What?”

     There was a shuffling noise outside, and Nyota opened the tent flap. “You okay, Captain?”

     Jim swallowed and nodded. “I’m alright, just a dream. How’s it look out there?”

     She exhaled sharply, but answered directly, “All clear, sir. Tricorder’s showing no ships or life signs in the immediate vicinity. Long-range scans indicate that the occupation force is concentrating around the main settlement, as before.”

     “Good.” Jim’s tone was dismissive, and Nyota withdrew, allowing the flap to seal behind her.

     McCoy was sitting up fully, and reached out to grasp Jim’s upper arm. “Jim, what were you saying? Who’s alive?”

     The captain’s eyes were intense, staring at the wall of the small tent. “Spock.”

     Jim could feel the doctor’s grip tighten involuntarily, could sense the sharp indrawn breath, and when McCoy spoke, his voice was cautiously gentle. “Jim. I know this is hard, especially after Darumar, but I don’t think that... .”

     “We’re connected, Bones, by a bond that hasn’t been broken. He’s alive.” As he spoke, Jim searched his mind, seeking that link that he had subconsciously sensed in his dream. Faint, elusive, but... there. He hadn’t been imagining it. He released his breath, unaware that he had been holding it.

     The doctor released his arm, and Jim turned his head, almost feeling the doctor’s skepticism. “I know what this sounds like, and I don’t know what else to say. He’s alive.”

     McCoy’s face was unreadable in the darkness, and the doctor remained silent as the captain pushed himself up and towards the tent flap. “I’m going to relieve Nyota.”

     Jim stepped lightly into the bracing chill of the early morning, the stars still visible in the patches of sky visible through the surrounding trees. His body ached, but he ignored it, walking swiftly towards the startled communications officer and reaching for her tricorder, tuning it for Vulcanoid life signs and starting a scan.

 

 

 

     Cold. Icy wetness suffused his clothes and his skin. Spock could barely feel his body, could barely feel anything but a dull agony that remained at the edges of his dimmed consciousness, threatening to break through with the slightest provocation. He had somehow grasped an overhanging branch, had struggled to drag himself out of the raging water, and now he lay, curled in on himself, shaking uncontrollably, concentrating on drawing one breath, and then another.

     The explosion had lifted him, thrown him away from the rock face and out into oblivion, and the next thing he knew he was hitting the water, immersed in fluid so cold it knocked the breath out of still healing lungs, and he choked, flailing, finally by chance managing to break the surface for precious seconds before reality plunged away from him as he plummeted, a waterfall roaring around him: unstoppable energy. He had hit, again, with devastating force, feeling bones break, distantly, through the haze of cold. He couldn’t remember how he had managed to reach for the branch, his last clear memory being of its approach as a mere shadow over the raging torrent.

     He knew that he needed to move, to stand, or crawl; to get away from the exposed riverbank, to assess his injuries, to determine a way to re-establish contact with his shipmates. He knew that he was vulnerable, to others and to the elements, to falling into a trance from which he would never awaken. Drawing on all his human reserve of stubbornness and defiance of this, a most logical situation in which to accept defeat, he gritted his teeth and raised his head, fingers digging into sand and gravel, summoning all his discipline to force feeling back into his extremities and _move._

 

 


	6. When I Cried Out To You

Chapter Six: When I Cried Out To You

 

     The morning had dawned bright and clear, and Jim rubbed his eyes. He had been staring at the small screen on the tricorder for over three hours, alternating between scans for his friend’s lifesigns and proximity probes for enemy approaches; three hours, and no definitive positive signal, no directional lock. Raising his head, he saw Nyota and Bones staring at him, Morrow sitting nearby, her eyes wide and trusting. As he looked up, Nyota averted her gaze, but Bones looked at him levelly. Jim kept worrying the weak perception of the bond in his head, willing it to become clearer or more convincing. It always slipped away, as his thoughts reached for it, being either too faint, or his mental discipline too loose. But, it was there, he would bet his life on it. Unfortunately, the question now was whether he would bet the lives of the other surviving crewmembers on it as well. And as he looked into McCoy’s eyes, he knew the answer was no. _No_. He swallowed, knowing that this may destroy him in a way that Darumar had not, but his hands did not shake as he lowered the tricorder and rose to his feet. “Let’s get packed up and get out of here. We’re moving to higher ground.” He saw a myriad of emotions flash through his oldest friend’s eyes, saw Nyota’s curiosity and Morrow’s obvious fear and worry.

 

 

 

     Spock stumbled, falling to his knees for the fourth time in the past hour. He had spent the night huddled against a fallen tree, the cold playing tricks with his mind, and now, even in the brightness of day, he was finding it difficult to focus. As he landed, broken bones shrieked, and he grunted, tasting the sharp, coppery tang of blood. His vision was wavering, and he knew he hadn’t much time left. The pain came in and out, with his control, and he couldn’t concentrate on much, even on his bond with Jim. The connection was slippery, weakened along with his normally formidable abilities, and he knew that his psi-null bondmate might not even be able to sense that the connection was still there. He could tell that Jim was alive, however, and it propelled him onward, even as muscles failed and strength faded. He pushed, trying to regain his feet, and faltered, finding himself suddenly facedown in the dirt, a soft noise escaping.

     There was a moment of desperate denial, then a moment of acceptance. Checkmate. He lay still, focusing all his energy on the bond, pushing a mental cry, a surge of feeling, an acknowledgment of all they were and all he cherished. It was a goodbye, but also the closest he had ever come to enunciating love. It was bittersweet, and full of longing and sadness, and forgiveness for something that he knew would haunt his friend forever. His consciousness was fading, and the feeling in his limbs was leaving him again, along with the pain.

     Spock’s eyes were closed, his mind retreating, focusing on the bright light of the bond. Chasing it, holding onto it. Whatever happened, he would cling to it, stay with his _t’hy’la_ in any way he could. He felt the distant sense of others’ minds almost as an afterthought, and then an immediate awareness of someone next to him. He felt his body being turned over, lifted, carried, the psionic wash flowing past him as his mind involuntarily fell into the depths of trance.

 

 

 

     “No!” Jim staggered, his legs giving out from under him, McCoy’s sudden grip on his arms the only thing keeping him upright.

     “Jim!”

     “Let me go! Let me... .” Jim let out a sudden choked noise, desolation and sadness and unbelievable love overtaking his mind. He could feel the farewell, taste it, and he shuddered, reaching mentally, grasping, helpless. He blindly pushed away from his friend, seeing nothing, focusing inwardly, ignoring the horrified and surprised looks from the others. He stumbled away several steps and suddenly stopped, the strange unraveling sensation disappearing. Jim took a deep breath and then another, and turned to face his crew.

     McCoy stepped cautiously towards him. “What happened?” His voice was devoid of his usual bluster.

     Jim blinked and straightened his shoulders, his gaze fixed on Nyota. “Spock’s still alive.”

     “What?” The word was barely audible, her lovely eyes wide and disbelieving. She glanced at McCoy, who had furrowed his brow, and then back at Jim. “How... ?”

     He pressed his lips together, suddenly hesitant, and watched as confusion, surprise, and understanding flashed in quick succession across her face. Her gaze never wavered from his. “You share a bond.”

     Morrow looked thoroughly confused, her eyes darting back and forth among the other officers. McCoy was standing stiffly, arms folded across his chest, but Nyota moved towards Jim, haltingly. “You can feel him? He’s hurt?”

     “Yes.” Jim shook his head. “For a minute, I thought he was dying.”

     Her eyes were intense. “But he’s alive.”

     “Yes.”

     Abrupt fury sparked across her face and she stepped forward aggressively. “Then why the fuck aren’t we looking for him, sir?”

     Jim could feel his face draining of color, deep-seated guilt pushing its way through, but he faced her accusing gaze squarely. “Because I have three lives that I’m responsible for here. I don’t know where he is, even with the tricorder, and I won’t risk exposing us to enemy attack, Klingon or Shrivth. We’ve got to keep moving and keep hidden and give Starfleet time to effect rescue.”

     She made an ugly noise. “They may not _effect rescue_ , Captain. Sulu said there was a Klingon armada up there, and there are just five of us left.” Her voice was forceful. “Respectfully, sir, I think we should go after him. No one left behind.”

     “Lieutenant... ,” Jim began, and then the sudden beep of the tricorder sounded in the deafening silence.

     Nyota looked down at the readout and her eyes widened. “Captain,” she hissed, “six Klingon life signs approaching this position from the southwest; one thousand meters and closing. Looks like a scouting party, sir.”

     Jim’s attention snapped towards the direction they had come. “They must be investigating the shuttle crash. Any indication they’ve spotted us?”

     Nyota shook her head. “Negative, sir. They’re moving slowly in an open formation.” She raised her eyes. “We’re high enough and in dense enough cover that a vessel wouldn’t be able to conduct a visual search, and Klingon long-range scanners might not be able to discern our life signs from that of the native population.”

     The captain shook his head. “We’re moving forward. There’s a cave system up ahead and we’ll need a more defensible position.” His tone left no room for disagreement, and Nyota looked away. Shoving his emotions deep down, Jim moved forward, hearing the others fall into step behind him. No choice, now. _I’m sorry._

 

 

 

     There was pain from somewhere and it was enough. He hadn’t been in the trance for very long, and the dim sensations were pulling him out. He forced his eyes open, his breathing coming in gasps, and was aware of a blurred figure in front of him pulling a hand back for another blow across his face. A rough voice washed over him as his head reeled.

     “C’mon, wake up, dammit! Wake up!”

     Spock felt his lolling head caught by a rough hand on his chin, sensing a barrage of emotions through the contact: _fear, confusion, anger, hope_. Hope? He pulled his head away, weakly, realizing that his hands were secured. Using the feeling of the restraints on his wrists as a focal point, he blinked rapidly, glancing around. He was slumped in a metal chair in a darkened room, hands and ankles secured to the frame, still wearing his filthy and damp clothing. Three men stood in the room with him; and they were human.

     The man in front of him, who had hit him and grabbed his face, stepped back, his hand falling to the handle of his holstered weapon, glaring at him closely. “Who are you and how the hell did you get here? Do you have a ship?”

     Spock closed his eyes briefly, if only to steady himself, and abruptly felt the crush of another blow against the side of his face, tasting blood in his mouth. The trance had been enough to begin to mend broken bone and stem the worst of the internal bleeding, but most of the other damage was untouched, and his pain was barely contained beneath his wavering controls.

     “For fuck’s sake, answer me! Do you have a ship?”

     Spock swallowed, but did not answer, allowing his chin to drop to his chest, and the man stepped away again, muttering obscenities under his breath, his next words obviously directed at one of his companions. “This is a waste of time.”

     “Fergus didn’t say anything about sending backup, did he?”

     “No. And he definitely wouldn’t send a Vulcan. They’re above-board all the way.”

     “But he’s a telepath; it would certainly make sense. And anyone can be coerced, Pederson. Or bribed, or threatened.”

     “Not a Vulcan.” There was a pause, and Spock sensed one of the others approach, felt a fist grip his hair and pull his head up. He blinked into hard green eyes, and saw recognition dawn, felt it in the man’s emotional resonance, along with the human’s sharp sensation of panic as his head was released. “Goddammit, do you know who he is?”

     The man’s voice was a hiss, and Spock sensed the others move closer, the first man grunting, “Who?”

     Pederson had moved quickly back, and Spock kept his eyes on him as the others peered at his face. “Don’t you watch the damn vidnet?” There was a confused silence, and then Pederson’s voice came again, sounding frustrated, “ _Starfleet_.”

     “Shit. Do you think they’re here for us?” The human’s voice was tinged with panic.

     There was a silence, and Spock managed to keep his head up. He surreptitiously tested his restraints, and the first man narrowed his eyes at him, his weapon now out of his holster and held in front of him, casually threatening. “Okay, Starfleet, let’s try this again. Where’s your ship?”

     Spock took a breath, fighting to keep his voice stable. “My vessel crashed after being intercepted by a Klingon patrol during a routine survey.” He saw the men exchange glances. “However, if given access to a communications grid, I may be able to transmit a long-range signal for rescue.”

     Pederson chuckled darkly. “Yeah, right.” He gestured towards the second man, who appeared to be the youngest. “Matthews, keep him covered. Larter, come with me.” The first man joined him and they walked over to the far corner, their voices lowered. Spock kept his eyes on Matthews, his sensitive hearing easily discerning the soft conversation.

     Larter’s voice was low and determined. “We’ve got to kill him. If he finds out what we’re into here, it’s not just our asses on the line, the whole operation will fall. And there’s no way we can let him near a comm unit. Fucking Starfleet.”

     “He’s not going anywhere for the time being. He doesn’t have a ship, and it doesn’t look like he’s got any backup out there. Maybe they were killed in the crash, maybe the Klingons got them.” Pederson’s intonation was thoughtful.

     There was a silence, and then Larter’s voice held an edge. “What?”

     “Well, he’s a telepath, right?”

     There was a grunt from Larter. “Yeah, the equipment finally registered a psi-pulse after almost six months of nothing. So what? All it’s done is bring fucking Starfleet right to our doorstep.”

     “Why don’t we test the rest of it?” Pederson’s voice was now nuanced with excitement. “At least we’ll know if it works.”

     Larter snorted. “Only you would try to run experiments with our ship gone and the Klingons lurking in the background; we need to focus here.” There was another silence, and then the human sniffed. “C’mon, Rick, he’s a fucking Vulcan, not one of these weakling aliens. If it actually works, we might have a big problem on our hands.”

     “That blue-eyed native bitch’ll keep the Klingons away from us if she knows what’s good for her. And we’re only getting paid if the job’s done. If we get out of here without at least testing the stuff, Fergus’ll just tell us to get bent and assign someone else next time.” There was a shuffling sound, and Spock did not turn his head, able to sense that they were both now regarding him. Pederson continued, the excitement now fully in his voice, “Look, he’s pretty badly fucked up, and we can break him down a bit more before we begin. You wanted to kill him anyway; let’s at least get something out of him first.”

     Larter exhaled. “If he’s as recognizable as you say he is, we might run into some problems with the higher-ups if his disappearance comes back to us.”

     There was a soft rustle of clothing, as if Pederson was shrugging. His voice was nonchalant. “Blame it on the Klingons.”

     Larter chuckled. “Fergus is going to shit when he finds out that his secret weapon was transported out to the edge of Federation space for testing, only to be used on a fucking Vulcan.”

     Pederson let out a noise between a cough and a sniff. “I’ll worry about that if and when we get out of here. Our orders were to test it, so let’s test it. Go get him ready.”

     Spock shifted in his chair as the two men walked back towards him, Larter with a tight, humorless smile on his face. He tested his restraints again, more obviously, and pushed down rising frustration as they held firm. These men were obviously familiar with Vulcan strength. Larter lifted his weapon, making an adjustment on the controls, and aimed it, hesitating only a split second before sending two stun bolts into Spock’s body from close range. The Vulcan grunted at the impacts and slumped forward, his senses wavering and dimming as unconsciousness claimed him once more.

 

 

 

     Jim and the others had made it into the cave system, opening up from an almost hidden entrance in the side of a steeply ascending mountain. The system, as far as they could tell, had multiple exits at higher elevation, and the opening afforded a view of the surrounding area. The comm line was clear, and Nyota had managed, in the few hours since they had made camp, to modify the frequencies of one of the communicators to monitor the Klingon channels. From what she could hear, the _Enterprise_ had made it away, barely, and no Starfleet response had yet been detected. The shuttle wreckage had been discovered and the crew was presumed dead, and no mention had been made of a Vulcan.

     Jim sat with his back against the hard rock wall, his eyes closed. They were comparatively safe, for the moment, and he was thinking of the men he had lost. In the blind scramble away from the shuttle and his focus on his bondmate, he had not spared much thought for the three men who hadn’t made it: Perry, and the two security guards, killed when the back of the shuttle was torn away. A pang of guilt and responsibility resounded within him, superimposing the unremitting anguish that already ripped at his insides. His crew. His jaw tensed, remembering sharply the decisions that had led to their current situation.

     Perry’s comment as to the dangers of underestimating Klingon willingness to retake the planet overlapped with Spock’s warning to him immediately before Jim had beamed down to Darumar. Both times, Jim might have chosen different paths, made different choices. Introspection was a necessary trait in a commanding officer: the ability to self-evaluate, and the humility to admit when wrong has been done and to try not to make the same mistake again. Jim knew now, perhaps too well, the fine line between that useful self-awareness and irrevocable self-destruction, and he felt as if he were shadowing that line now. He blinked and looked up as he heard a soft sound, seeing Nyota lowering herself gracefully to sit next to him.

     “Doctor McCoy’s got watch,” she murmured, inclining her head towards the entrance a few meters away. “Morrow’s sleeping. And I wanted to apologize.” She bit her lower lip. “You were right about not going off and looking for him. We’d have gotten ourselves into it, and if the Klingons didn’t kill us, Spock would have if he’d ever found out.” She looked down. “I let my personal feelings get in the way.”

     Jim pressed his lips together, more than aware that his own personal feelings were at the forefront of his mind. “He’s your friend. And mine.”

     She shifted, and hazarded a glance at him. “Your bondmate. May I ask?”

     He looked down and nodded slightly. “After Darumar, he realized that we’d had a link. Maybe even a bond. Something that had been building since Khan, and which snapped during the... .” His voice broke, and he licked his lips. “During what happened. We decided to build it back just a few days ago.” He raised his eyes to hers. “I can barely feel it, normally, just a background sense. But it hurt like hell when it felt like it was unraveling.”

     She swallowed. “Jim, what happened on Darumar? I know it’s classified, but... .”

     He looked away again, familiar pain lancing through his chest, his voice dry. “You’ve got clearance.” He shook his head. “An entity took over my mind. I could feel everything, see everything, but I couldn’t do jackshit about it. And instead of just destroying me, and the entity with me, he beamed in. And I stunned him. And then I held him down and stabbed him, and then I strangled him with my own hands.” Jim dragged in a raw breath. “He was conscious, and melded with me, somehow, and killed it, just as I...just as I killed him.” He blinked rapidly. “McCoy got him back, but... .”

     He stopped as her warm hand gripped his arm, and he looked up, expecting to see censure, but instead recognizing shared pain. “He knew it wasn’t your fault.”

     Jim was silent, thinking of a promise not to turn away. He knew this wasn’t the same, but his inability to search for his friend, his bondmate, felt like a betrayal regardless.

     “He’s tough, Jim. He’s still alive.” Her hand tightened on his arm, and she took a breath as if to say something else when she paused, turning towards the darkness of the interior of the cave. “Did you hear that?”

     Jim pushed himself up into a crouch, hand on his phaser, peering into the thick darkness. And then he heard it, too, a scuffling noise like footsteps approaching. “Morrow! Bones!” he hissed, sensing Nyota grasp her own phaser and press back against the wall for cover. He kept his crouch, and slowly, a shape coalesced out of the inky black and Jim’s jaw dropped. Standing there, now staring at him with huge lavender eyes was a young woman, barefoot and dressed in a simple white tunic and pants. She blinked at him and Jim exchanged a glance with Nyota before moving cautiously forward. Her eyes were strangely intense, and as he approached he felt something tickling at the back of his head, a feathery sensation, and he saw her eyes narrow and the feathery feeling became more insistent and penetrating and he gasped, halting. As quickly as it came, it was gone, and he shook his head as if to clear it, seeing the girl smile suddenly and step forward, reaching for his hand. Before he fully knew what he was doing, he reached back, and as their hands connected he heard a soft voice in his mind. Gentle, alien, but he could understand it clearly.  _Hello, Jim. I am Feriah. I feel you are my friend._

     Jim swallowed, and addressed Nyota without turning, “Are the Shrivth telepathic?”

     “No. Not that we know of.” She sounded surprised and uneasy.

     “I think we were wrong.” He glanced down to where the alien female held his hand and then up at her face. She was smiling.

 

 

 

     Coming back to consciousness this time was jarring, pain swamping his controls, and a barely audible moan left his lips as a sharp, icy blast of water washed over his body. Spock opened his eyes, forcing himself into silence, noting the appearance of Pederson and Larter in front of him. He was still restrained in the chair, his shivering making the skin under his bindings bleed, and he could feel the tug of electrodes pressed into his skin against his temples. Larter was holding an empty bucket, and Pederson was standing in front of a tall, silvery console, completely incongruous within the dark, primitive room. The console had a wire-like extension fitted onto its top, with a glimmering sensor pointed directly at Spock’s head.

      “Starting at five percent.”

     Pederson’s hands moved on the controls, and Spock felt a strange sensation against his mind. He redirected his energy to reinforce his mental shields and raised his chin, staring directly at his two captors. “You are aware that I am a Starfleet officer, and you will be held accountable for this treatment.” He couldn’t help his voice from shaking, and his words were ignored.

     “Ten percent.”

     The sensations were growing stronger, but his shields were holding. Spock flexed his hands, attempting a sharp jerk against the restraints. He saw Larter bend over and retrieve another bucket and braced himself as another wash of freezing water crashed against his face and chest.

     Pederson sounded amused. “Twenty percent. What’s with the water?”

     Larter was matter-of-fact. “We need him conscious, and I don’t feel like hitting him anymore. Vulcans don’t like cold and they really don’t like water; it’ll keep him off-balance”

     “You’re a sick bastard.”

     Spock turned his head sharply as a tendril of something slipped beneath his shields. His energy was pouring into his mental defenses, but his controls were faltering.

     “Thirty percent. Jesus, look at those readings.” There was a note of awe in Pederson’s voice.

     Larter paused as he reached for another bucket and glanced over at the console. His reply was slightly unsteady. “Are you sure this is a good idea? Experimenting with a couple of loose-minded natives is one thing, but a Vulcan... .”

     “Fuck that.” Pederson flipped several switches. “Six months of bullshit and now we can finally do something. Fifty percent.”

     Spock grunted as he felt his shields begin to give. He pulled harder at the restraints and couldn’t prevent a sharp gasp as Larter threw another bucket of cold water in his face. Whatever they were doing was gradually negating his ability to shield and was enhancing his telepathic abilities. He could feel a strengthening psionic background, could sense with painful clarity the blur of emotions and thoughts of the two humans immediately in front of him, and of the other, somewhere in the next room.

     Pederson was practically vibrating with excitement. “Seventy percent. Look at the gamma band. Holy fucking hell. If Fergus was right, all we have to do is implant a suggestion, and I bet he could do it, with those energy readings.” He snickered, glancing over at Larter, who was fingering his weapon, looking more and more alarmed. “Want to suggest he find those hiding telepathic Shrivth for us? Or maybe force a few Klingons to deliver us back our ship?” His green eyes were full of satisfaction. “We could even test whether the assassination protocol is even worth pursuing. Who’d have thought this fucked up plan for traceless, telepathic targeting would actually be a possibility?”

     Larter shook his head, his fear appearing as a black aura around his mental projection. “I don’t like this, Rick. I’m getting a bad feeling.”

     Pederson smirked. “Fergus said that the field would prevent the subject from acting unless specifically ordered. He won’t hurt us. Eighty percent.”

     Spock’s shields burned away and he let out an involuntary cry, the cold and pain fading in the harsh psionic exposure enforced by the machine. He could sense every emotion and thought from the three humans in the building, could decipher the presence and the blur of alien minds within the nearby settlement, and he could feel Jim with a startling lucidity. He could sense a strong, background pulse of energy from a group of minds set apart of any others and suddenly was inundated by information from the humans in front of him, helplessly absorbed from the thoughts pouring into his mind. He knew what was happening, and why, and he reeled at the horrifying knowledge.

     “Ninety percent! Larter, what the fuck are you doing just standing there? Get the tricorder and take some readings.”

     Larter’s voice was shaking. “Can’t you feel that? I’m serious; turn it off, man. We have what we need.”

     The other human suddenly ran into the room, his presence a blur of shock and excitement. “We’ve got another psi-pulse! From sector six! Do you want... ?” His voice faded as he looked between Spock and the two men behind the console.

     The field and the awareness were expanding, forcing an intensity of psionic energy like nothing Spock had ever experienced before. The men in front of him were oblivious to the fact that he had reached involuntarily into their minds, that they were in as much, or more danger as himself. He gasped a plea through gritted teeth, “Please...do not...I cannot control... .”

     Pederson’s triumphant cry, “Full power!” suddenly turned into a choked scream as he grabbed his temples and fell away from the console. His cry was echoed by the younger man, Matthews, who started clawing for his weapon, dropping abruptly to his knees.

     Larter tripped backwards, pulling his own weapon out and firing blindly in Spock’s direction, his own face contorted. “Shut it off! Shut it off!”

     A stun beam impacted Spock’s shoulder strongly enough to spin the chair back, and he fell onto the ground, his head slamming against the cold, wet concrete, feeling the nauseating whirl of thoughts and emotions not his own, and then wild screams as the impelling power of the machine extended his powerfully enhanced psi abilities into the unshielded minds of the men in the room, energies that would rip apart a human mind. He could feel it extending into the bond as well, reaching for Jim along their connection and he desperately dove into the recesses of his own mind, folding in on himself, calling on whatever remained of instinctive Vulcan discipline to make it stop, to stop his own heart, to protect his bondmate.

     The death screams of two of the human minds resonated horrifically in his blown-open psyche, and then the energy field suddenly stopped. His head pounded and shrieked, his inherent psi abilities still unchained and uncontrolled and his shields completely gone. Through the blur, he sensed Pederson’s weak presence in front of him, heard the human’s hands scrabbling over the machine’s controls before hearing his body hit the floor with a dull thud. He could feel the man’s potent terror and panic, and the disjointed garble of his thoughts, just this side of insanity. Spock could barely feel the bond through the morass of lingering psychic trauma, and could feel his own mind working to shut down, to fall yet again into a desperately needed healing trance. He struggled once more against the cutting restraints, meeting Pederson’s unfocused green gaze across the floor, and imagining he saw the golden light of a transporter beam as his vision left him.

 

 

 

     Jim opened his eyes, feeling confusion set in as the dim walls of the cave, lit intermittently by swaying lights, coalesced around him. His head ached, and he felt horribly, indescribably lost. He swallowed repeatedly, and saw McCoy’s face suddenly above him, lines of worry around his eyes.

     “What happened?” The captain coughed, his throat rough and scratchy, like he had been yelling.

     McCoy exchanged a glance with Nyota, who was standing nearby, her expression determinedly impassive, but with drying trails of tears streaking her cheeks, her phaser pointed at Feriah, who had backed away, her expression distraught. The doctor took a breath and looked back at Jim, who was struggling to sit up. “I don’t know, kid. You started screaming and grabbed your head, and then you passed out. I was hoping you could tell me.”

     Jim blinked, rubbing his forehead, hearing Feriah whisper something in her own language, and Nyota’s breath caught.

     “She said that this was not her fault, that something happened to your mate. He was being attacked, and you, through him. She said she could feel it, too, some kind of growing energy, a telepathic weapon. She used a word for it that I don’t recognize. She said it suddenly stopped.”

     “No.” Jim shook his head, his eyes growing unfocused as he concentrated on the place where their bond resided. He felt panic grow as he sensed a raw darkness where there had once been something: a passive presence, warmth. “No, not again.”

     “Jim... .”

     The captain suddenly pushed himself to his feet, his eyes blazing, ignoring the scream of pain in his head, the choked feeling of welling grief, and the confusion and fear in the eyes of his crewmembers. _Spock._ He shook his head and focused on anger. Anger at a situation that was rapidly growing out of control, at variables that appeared out of nowhere, and at himself, for decisions that again, it seemed, lost him his dearest friend. He looked at Feriah. “I need to know what’s going on here. Who are you? Are you Shrivth?”

     Uhura translated, and Feriah winced, reaching out for his hand again, murmuring a reply.

     Nyota met Jim’s eyes, still holding her phaser out in front of her. “She says this way is easier.” The communications officer’s mouth was a tight line, but at Jim’s nod, she lowered the weapon and stepped back.

     Jim’s hand clenched into a fist, and then he released it, reaching back towards the alien, feeling the feathery tingle again, and held his breath as a wave of images and thoughts swam into his mind. He stepped back, finally, inhaling sharply and releasing Feriah’s hand. The young woman’s large eyes were full of tears, and she bowed her head.

     Jim looked at McCoy, who had moved back to stand next to Morrow. “They’re Shrivth, but have been ostracized because of their telepathic and empathic gifts. They used to be healers, primarily, before the original Klingon invasion, but then were taken by the Klingons as...slaves when their abilities were discovered.” He didn’t go into the horrific details that Feriah had transferred. “They were seen as sympathizers, and the rest of the population turned against them. They fled into the mountains to escape genocide, and remained here even after the Klingons departed. She said there have been others searching for them, others like us. She says that the weapon that hurt Spock was operated by those others.”

     Nyota’s brow furrowed. “Others like us? Humans? This planet’s been off-limits.”

     “Maybe not as much as we thought.” Jim’s tone was hard. “There’s something going on here beyond what we’ve been told.”

     “If others are looking for her, then why did she come out to meet us?” McCoy looked puzzled.

     Jim’s jaw tensed as a rush of bitter emotion flooded through him. “She said they sensed Spock try to communicate with me, sensed his mental call, and they... .” He paused, swallowing hard. “They felt what he...felt, and believed that we could be trusted.”

     Nyota’s face crumpled, but she held her chin up, and McCoy suddenly looked haggard. Jim shut his eyes briefly, feeling a strange tingle along his extremities. He opened his eyes, seeing Feriah scrambling back away from them, seeing a characteristic golden glow begin to form along his arms and hands. He heard Morrow’s excited shout, and managed one more breath before the swirl of dematerialization overtook his senses.

 

 

 

     Jim tensed as he materialized on an unfamiliar pad, his three shipmates alongside him, ready for a fight, but the operator standing behind the console was human and wore a Starfleet insignia, and breathless Standard was muttered as two men in Spec Ops blacks manhandled him and his people off of the pads. “Move aside. We’ve got one more transport lock.”

     Jim felt Nyota grip his arm as a single, prone figure began to materialize in the chamber. But his hope failed as the figure coalescing appeared distinctly human, barely conscious, hands grasping in midair, mouth agape, green eyes staring fearfully into nothing.

 

 


	7. Nothing Left To Hold

Chapter Seven: Nothing Left To Hold

 

 

     Jim sat on a hard bunk in a tiny cabin, his back braced against the bulkhead behind him, feeling the vibrations of the warp engines through the wall, harsher and more distinct than on the _Enterprise_. He held his hands in front of him on his lap, palms up, separated. He could feel the cool brush of air against his skin, imagined it to be the absence of the warm press of his friend’s fingers, and felt the knife-edge of guilt and longing twist in his guts once more.

     They were onboard a Starfleet Special Operations vessel: small, fast, and maneuverable, equipped with a rudimentary cloaking device and powerful weaponry. It had been sent to retrieve all personnel from Corolan Prime, searching for human and Vulcan life signs and beaming up anyone still alive. Jim and the three others from the _Enterprise_ landing party had been hustled down to a small medbay and then confined into separate quarters. His rank was ignored, as well as his questions. And no one mentioned anything about the unfamiliar, green-eyed human who had materialized last in the chamber and had not, afterwards, appeared with the others in the medbay.

     Six hours and change, and after being deposited in the small cabin and locked inside, Jim simply sat, thinking about what he had done wrong, what he had lost, the immediate sense of confusion and grief was transforming back into the deep-seated anger he had felt in that cave, along with a terrible suspicion that whatever had happened on that planet had not been as simple as a well-timed Klingon invasion, or an anonymous native attack on an alien. He clenched his hands into fists, and glanced again at the chrono, his mind drifting involuntarily back to that place of abraded emptiness. The stability and comfort that he had experienced with the connection to his bondmate’s mind had gone, and Jim felt a chill where before he had known warmth. A gaping wound, where before he had known stalwart loyalty, acceptance, and love. Their bond had only been in place for days, the conscious acknowledgement of their relationship so fleeting, and the future lay as a barren extrapolation of Jim’s present anguish.

     He had expected to feel the terrifying swings of guilt and sharp visualizations that had plagued him after Darumar, after their link had been destroyed. Now, however, he simply felt the yawning abyss of loss. It felt like a weight on his soul, holding it down into the flames of anger and regret, and his hands now felt like ice as he unwillingly had clenched them so tight that they were shaking with the effort, his knuckles white.

     The sharp beep startled him, and the doors to his cabin slid open smoothly. A young woman in Spec Ops blacks and wearing lieutenant’s bars was standing there, her expression as impassive as any Vulcan’s, and she motioned for him to follow her. “Commissioner Narayan will see you now, Captain.”

     Jim’s eyes narrowed slightly as he considered the incongruity of a Federation Commissioner on a special operations mission in enemy space, his suspicions intensifying. His hesitation was not lost on the officer in front of him. “It was not a request, sir.”

     “Sure.” Jim’s reply was forcibly casual, with just an edge of bitterness. “Lead on, Lieutenant.” He stood and straightened his shoulders, forcing himself to channel all his anger and powerful emotions into functional awareness. He needed answers, and a commissioner sounded like the best damn place to start.

 

 

 

     Sasia crept cautiously through the doorway of a dark outbuilding on the very edge of her defunct farm, huddled against the deep mass of the forest stretching up into the nearby mountainous region. The distant roar of the river could be heard, thundering down from the treacherous ravines of the high country.

     The invaders had come again, as Kortai Deruk, her brother’s lead priest and her husband, had prophesied. The timing, however, was not coincidental or ordained, and she knew it. Throughout the original occupation of her homeworld, the people were held together more and more by their ties to a new religion, led by Deruk. The priest preached piety, and homogeneity of behavior and culture, yet all along held an underhanded partnership with their occupiers. They would turn a blind eye to his ravings and he would keep the people in line and distracted. A deal with the demons, he told her on the side, and life, is better than holding the hand of the dead. She had pragmatically agreed; unlike her brother, she had never been a true believer.

     And when the Klingons had left, suddenly, drawn away for some unknown reason, Deruk’s influence had continued among the remaining people, and he had promoted Ker Herun, her brother, as the new chieftain, his puppet king, ruling over this province, the largest collection of their people after the Klingons’ forced consolidation of the population.

     The first appearance of the humans shortly after the Klingons’ withdrawal was unexpected, but cleverly handled by Deruk and inspired by the demons’ tactics. He would look the other way from their activities: the kidnappings, the experiments, and they would provide him money, tools, and intelligence to maintain control. And six months ago, when they had come to him with an express desire to capture members of the Shrivth-el, the mind-adepts, for a secret program, Deruk had been almost eager. The Shrivth-el had been a living example of the danger of diversity, as Deruk had painted them, and were better off gone. Never mind that a telepath would have been able to see beneath the lead priest’s less-than-noble motives in a mere heartbeat. Everything had changed with the imminent threat from the Federation, the young captain and his people strolling in offering aid and fairness and protection. Deruk’s position, his power, would have been forfeit under this change, and so he had had no choice but to immediately relay the development to his former Klingon contacts. With the danger of Federation encroachment immediate and verifiable, the demons had not hesitated in the slightest to risk a return, rewarding her husband with the position of planetary liaison. He would again keep the people in line, and continue to hold tenuous power over a planet of suffering souls.

     It had been Sasia’s disgraceful function to keep an eye on the comings and goings of the small group of humans, and to personally ferry messages back and forth between them and her husband. They had been most disturbed and frightened when the demons had landed and even more so when they found out that their own ship had been discovered, almost too easily. In that small act of sabotage, Sasia felt as if she may have partially made up for her years of indifference to the suffering of her people.

     Now, she slipped into the building where the humans had lived and carried out their grim business, attracted by the sounds of weapons discharge and the strange golden light that had shone out from between the cracks in the structure. The Klingons had mostly left both her and her property alone, in deference to her husband’s role, and she wondered what had prompted the humans’ abrupt change in behavior. Part of her hoped that perhaps they had simply vanished, as the Federation captain had, into the woods, perhaps taken by the demons themselves.

     The dark building was as dirty as ever, and Sasia’s delicate sense of smell was almost overwhelmed. Curiosity drove her forward, however, and she tentatively turned a final corner into the largest of the rooms, recoiling sharply as she took in the sprawled bodies of two of the three humans, each still clutching weapons, lifeless. Sasia’s gaze took in the room, noting the conspicuous absence of the third human, and of the equipment they had brought with them. And then she heard a pained sound from the darkness on the far side of the room.

     Cautiously, she approached, her eyes gradually adjusting to the lighting to see a chair knocked over on its side, a limp figure tied to its frame: male, humanoid, and unmoving, his head lying in a small pool of dark blood. Sasia peered closer, taking in the strange curve of an ear, the way his eyebrows angled up against pale skin. His face was swollen and discolored, his clothing filthy and torn, and the way he was restrained suggested he had been subjected to some sort of torture at the hands of the human animals. He was not human, and not of her world; that she was sure of.

     Sasia’s first instinct was to simply leave. The humans were dead, or vanished, and her distasteful task was complete; her husband would be pleased to have one less loose end, even if it meant the cessation of one stream of compensation. But, as she turned, she heard it again, a small noise, a moan from the prisoner, and she moved back almost involuntarily, walking gingerly to his side. She struggled internally with disgust at the dirty, twisted body and with her deeply ingrained sense of cultural offense at his unfamiliar, alien features. But a small part of her was in pain, seeing him lying there, helpless: a stark visual representation of the hurt inflicted by the callous, hypocritical actions of her spouse. It was a sense of childish defiance that won the argument, driven by years of playing to the whims of others, years of living with fear and self-doubt and guilt. Taking a deep breath through her mouth, she bent down to release the alien’s restraints.

 

 

 

     Jim walked just behind the young lieutenant down the narrow corridor of the ship, his resolve building with each step. As he rounded a corner, he heard the sound of muffled sobs, and suddenly came face-to-face with Lia Morrow, her eyes red and tears streaking her face, being almost forcibly escorted by a large Spec Ops officer.

     “Captain!” Her cry stopped him in his tracks, and he reached out, taking her arm.

    “Lieutenant, what happened?”

     “Let go of her, sir.” The officer’s stance changed, his voice tinged with challenge, and Jim’s self-imposed control vanished abruptly.

     “Back off, crewman.” His tone was steely and commanding, and he pressed immediately up into the younger man’s personal space, pulling Morrow around behind him, hearing the woman who had been escorting him move towards the hall intercom.

     “Captain Kirk.” The voice came from down the hall, and Jim glanced over, not retreating physically, feeling Morrow tense behind him. Standing in the middle of the hallway was a short, slender man with black hair and eyes, dressed in an expensive suit of decidedly civilian cut. “Please. I am Federation Trade Commissioner Jalal Narayan. I have a few questions for you, and I imagine you must have quite a few for me as well.”

     Jim turned to face him, his hand still on Morrow’s arm. “I expect you to answer for the treatment of my people. You must know this is highly irregular.”

     Narayan smiled tightly. “Indeed, Captain. It is not my preference to antagonize officers of Starfleet, especially members of the crew of our fine flagship. Please, permit me to explain.”

     Jim looked over at Morrow, who had composed herself somewhat. “You okay, Lia?”

     She nodded shakily. “Yes, sir.”

     He frowned and shot a final glare at the Spec Ops officers before setting his jaw and walking towards the commissioner. The diminutive man’s smile widened, and he gestured Jim towards an open entryway.

     Jim entered, glancing around to take in a small office and living quarters. Narayan walked in behind him, allowing the doors to slide shut and crossed over to stand on the other side of the desk. Already standing against the wall of the office was another man, tall and appearing almost hawkish, dressed in Starfleet science blue with commander’s stripes on the sleeves. Narayan glanced between the two men. “Doctor Callum Fergus, this is the famous Captain James Kirk. Captain, Doctor Fergus, one of my top advisors.”

     Jim nodded shortly at Fergus, who inclined his own head, his eyes strangely intense.

     “Please have a seat, Captain.”

     “Forgive me, Commissioner, but I prefer to stand.” Jim ignored Fergus for a moment, fastening a hard glare on Narayan, who had slipped into the chair behind his desk. “I’d like to know just what the hell is going on here. I can understand a rescue op, but why the continued secrecy? I’ve been confined to quarters for hours with no contact with my ship or my people and no answers as to who else was on that planet and why they were there.”

     Narayan shook his head, but his smile had narrowed. “I don’t understand, Captain. You and your people were our mission; I’m not aware of anyone else on that planet.”

     Jim’s eyebrows flew up. “And the man beamed in right after us? I don’t believe I recognized him from my landing party.”

     Fergus leaned forward almost too quickly. “The man you saw beamed up was a scout that had been sent down to ascertain the situation; to calibrate the transporter signal.”

     Jim made a face, deliberately ignoring Fergus. “That’s not standard procedure, Commissioner.”

     Narayan chuckled weakly. “Who am I to argue with the methods of our brave warriors in black?”

     The captain made a noise of frustration. “While dirtside, I was presented with intel that suggested not only that prior unauthorized contact had been made with the native population, but that some sort of weapons testing was taking place. Psi-targeted weaponry. Like the kind that would make a man show up looking as if he’d been hit by a live wire.” He jerked his chin. “Like that man who was beamed in.”

     Narayan exchanged a quick glance with Fergus. “And where did you get this intelligence, Captain?”

     “Directly from the source, Commissioner; from a member of the populace.”

     Narayan’s eyes narrowed again. “Hardly verifiable, Captain. Most of the population subscribes to radical fundamentalist religious beliefs, and are prone to flights of fancy ascribed to random deities.”

     Jim stared at him evenly. When he spoke, his voice was a quiet monotone. “Sir. I demand to have access to my people and to a comm line.”

     The commissioner’s easy demeanor abruptly disappeared. “Captain, you will remember your place here. You led a disastrous landing party onto that planet that led to the loss of four of your men and the destruction of a shuttle. A landing party which, strangely enough, also coincided with a sudden reappearance of the Klingons. And now we’ve been forced to leave this strategic planet to an enemy. Quite honestly, your assertions about ‘weapons testing’ and ‘unauthorized contact’ sound like some sort of cover story for how you managed to singlehandedly destroy Federation interests in this sector!”

     Jim’s posture went rigid, but he didn’t back down. “My first officer was not attacked by a cover story, Commissioner. He was subjected to a psionic weapon.”

     Fergus coughed slightly. “And how do you know that? The testimony of your crewmembers stated that your first officer went missing after the shuttle crashed.”

     The captain’s eyes narrowed. “Because we share a telepathic bond, Mr. Fergus.”

     There was a potent silence, and Fergus’ face was suddenly devoid of color.

     Narayan pushed himself up, his face contorted. “I’m not listening to any more of this. Consider my words carefully, Kirk.”

     Jim tensed, and his gaze shifted from Narayan’s angry expression to Fergus’ averted eyes. There was something else going on, every instinct in him screamed it, and yet he knew that now, at this moment, he was at a disadvantage and on dangerous territory. He would have to wait. Slowly, he stepped back, holding his hands loosely at his sides, forcing a note of capitulation into his voice. “I’m sorry. Like you said, I lost four people down there. I’d still like to see my crew, if possible.”

     Narayan eyed him suspiciously, but his shoulders relaxed. “We’ll be rendezvousing with the _Enterprise_ in less than three hours. You can see your people then.”

     He stared at Jim, as if waiting for another argument, but the young captain simply nodded. “Commissioner.” He stepped back again, and then turned, the door sliding open, revealing two Spec Ops officers waiting to escort him.

 

 

 

     Jalal Narayan waited several seconds after the doors had slid shut before turning on his chief scientific advisor, and co-conspirator. “A fucking telepathic bond?”

     Fergus shook his head. “Well, now we know what Morrow and the others were hiding. If Kirk knew anything more, he would have openly accused us.”

     “He’s shrewd. And your people fucked up, testing that equipment on a Vulcan. On that fucking Vulcan! You’re lucky you managed to get Pederson on the line before initiating blanket transport.” His brow furrowed. “Get him up here; I want to talk to him. First that idiot loses his ship, and then he decides to experiment on a fucking Starfleet officer. Are you sure you got all the equipment transported up?”

     Fergus shifted uncomfortably. “Yes, sir, all the equipment was diverted into the storage bay. And Pederson’s unconscious again. He already told me what he knows, anyway. He said the Vulcan was dying, and my long-range readings confirmed it: Spock’s life signs were too weak already and fading. Leaving him down there was a certain death sentence.”

     “Interesting that you should use that term, Callum. Pederson told you that the Vulcan was in his head. If he knows even half of what Pederson knows, and if he communicated it to his bondmate, then... .”

     “Spock’s dead, sir. You saw Kirk; he’s wrecked. And if he knew anything, he wouldn’t have let it go this easily.”

     “I hope you’re right.” Narayan sank back into his chair. “But I want to make sure.” He looked up, meeting Fergus’ eyes. “I want all this tied up and taken care of. Exposure here puts all our operations in jeopardy and we’d be right in the crosshairs along with our allies.” He sighed. “And I don’t know about you, but I really don’t want to be on the bad side of the fucking Orion syndicate. I’ll keep Fleet away from Prime, but I want you to handle Pederson. And Kirk.” He rubbed his hands over his eyes. “And get a message to that trained priest of yours and tell him to keep an eye out for a rogue Vulcan. If Spock pops up, tell Deruk to get rid of him.”

     Fergus nodded. “Yes, sir. I’ll take care of it personally.”

     Narayan glared at him. “Spare me the assurances. You just let me know when it’s done.” Fergus nodded again and turned sharply to go, his expression determined and his eyes cold.

 

 

 

     Sasia stood in the entrance to the small room, looking down at the alien, lying motionless on the bed. She had managed to release him from his bindings and lift his surprisingly heavy body into a handcart, bringing him to one of the small huts on the opposite edge of the property, kept for the use of farm workers, but, of course, empty since the invasion. She had wrapped a cloth over her nose and mouth as she had stripped his body and bathed him as best she could, wiping away the blood and dirt and grime, and bandaging his wounds. His blood was as alien as his features, and the sight of it turned her stomach. He had not made another sound, or moved once since she had begun her ministrations, though she could swear she felt a strange sensation whenever their skin touched.

     Now he lay, still and deeply unconscious, naked under a thin blanket, his black hair contrasting strongly with white sheets. She studied him closely, realizing that he appeared to be quite young, and despite his alien features and the lingering bruising on his face, was pleasing to look at. Whatever had happened to him had been brutal; the marks on his body had attested to that. She swore under her breath at the humans’ capacity for depravity, and then pressed her lips together, knowing that she was perhaps just as culpable. The thought reminded her that she was expected back at her husband’s side, helping to oversee the return of her people into subjugation. Throwing a last glance at the alien, she turned and left, thinking that it was now up to him whether he lived or died and wondering which would be the greater kindness.

 

 


	8. The Human Thing To Do

Chapter Eight: The Human Thing To Do

 

     Roughly ten hours had passed since their extraction from the surface of Corolan Prime before they were able to rendezvous with the _Enterprise_ , holding well into Federation space. Once back on familiar ground, Jim wasted no time contacting Command, standing on the bridge still clad in his borrowed blacks, watching the Spec Ops vessel vanish almost immediately into warp space. Nyota had accompanied him to the bridge, her steely glare and determination lending him strength. She had been irate when they had finally met again in the rescue ship transporter room just before being beamed aboard the _Enterprise_ , her right hand sporting a brilliant array of bruises across the knuckles. Jim hadn’t asked, but he had noticed the black eye on one of the larger Spec Ops crewmen.

     Nyota had insisted on making the subspace connection herself and now glanced up at him, lingering anger still evident in her dark eyes. “Admiral Coventry requests eyes-only, Captain.”

     Sulu was standing to the side, having moved rapidly out of Jim’s way as he had bounded onto the bridge. He had evidently received a report from the rescue vessel, because his gaze held understanding as Jim turned to him again. “You have her, Hikaru.”

     The captain took call in the main briefing room, a short walk from the bridge. Kaliah Coventry was one of the most decorated members of the Admiralty, and Jim admired her almost as much as he had Chris Pike.

     As the admiral’s face appeared on the viewscreen, Jim stepped forward. “Admiral. We’ve got a situation on Prime that I need... .”

     “Captain,” Coventry interrupted, her expression deadly serious, “I’m going to dispense with the pleasantries and merely say that it’s good to have you back. I’ve gotten a preliminary report and I was very sorry to hear about your lost crew, especially Commander Spock.” She paused. “I assume this channel is as secure as they come?”

     Jim’s brow furrowed slightly, a dull feeling growing in his stomach at the mention of his bondmate’s name, but he replied evenly, “Yes, ma’am. Lieutenant Uhura encrypted it herself.”

     “Good. I’ll get right to it, then. We’ve had ongoing suspicions regarding the exploitation of peoples on no-contact worlds by Federation insiders. Orion syndicate activity has been at an all-time high, and our intelligence officers have recently noted the appearance of members of species from these worlds, including the Shrivth, in Orion slave camps. We’ve also had reports of equipment having disappeared from former Section Thirty-one holdings and have recently received information that the two are connected.” She leaned forward. “We sent you to Prime primarily to conduct a readiness survey, as you were aware, but we also wanted to see if your presence there would instigate movement, perhaps revealing an operation there.”

     Jim’s expression hardened. “You sent us in blind, ma’am.”

     Coventry winced almost imperceptibly. “Yes. I know a lot went down, and now we have to determine exactly what happened. The Klingon invasion complicated things considerably.”

     “How about the sudden appearance of a Federation trade commissioner on a Spec Ops mission?”

     Coventry tilted her head. “Commissioner Narayan’s office is in charge of the new status of the Corolan system and he insisted on personally overseeing the rescue operation; I think he’s wary of Starfleet interference. You knew the Council was already strongly divided as to the path we should take on that planet, especially given the proximity to Klingon space and the ambiguity of our borders there. Everyone’s taking sides.”

     Jim emphatically continued, “There’s more, ma’am. That craft transported at least one unidentified civilian during our extraction, and Narayan subjected my people to questioning that bordered on interrogation.” He took a breath. “I managed to contact a subgroup of psi-adept Shrivth down there and can confirm that there’s been some sort of operation on that world, lately targeted against them specifically.” He swallowed, feeling a burn in his stomach again. “And my first officer was attacked by an energy field, a psionic weapon of some sort, definitely not native.”

     Coventry looked suddenly intense. “You can confirm that, about the field? You’re sure it wasn’t Klingon technology? Mind-sifter? Who operated it?”

     Jim’s jaw tensed. “I don’t know, ma’am. He had been missing since our shuttle went down, but I think we can rule out the Klingons. We’d been monitoring comm frequencies down there and no mention had been made of a captured Vulcan.”

     “Captain,” her expression was suddenly puzzled, her words deliberate, “if he was missing, how did you know how he was attacked?”

     Jim raised his chin. “We were bonded, ma’am.”

     She stared at him for a moment, and then rubbed her hand over her eyes. “Jesus, Jim. I’m sorry.”

     Jim felt a sharp pang in his gut, and clenched his jaw again, trying to ignore it.

     She took a breath. “What I’m about to tell you is strictly need-to-know only.”

     He nodded and she continued, “Sec Thirty-one was developing the raw tools for artificial enhancement of telepathic abilities, aimed at training operatives for long-range assassination or espionage activities. I don’t know the details, but it was one of the projects affected by the disappearances. Now, if you say there are naturally telepathic members of that species... .”

     Her voice trailed off, and Jim nodded gravely. “They may have been targets for experimentation.”

     There was a powerful silence, and Jim felt another sharp wrenching feeling in his stomach. He winced, and Coventry went on, “I know you haven’t had time to file a comprehensive report, but tell me more about the... .” She broke off as Jim winced again, his midsection feeling suddenly as if it were on fire. “Jim, are you alright?”

     Jim grunted a reply, swallowing back bile and reaching for the comm to sickbay, his fingers sliding against the tabletop helplessly. He was dimly aware of the room beginning to spin around him, the pain in his insides almost unbearable, hearing Coventry yelling onscreen, and then he was on the floor, retching, and red colored his vision.

 

 

_He was back in that IC room in sickbay, staring down at his friend, but the tubes and breathing apparatus were missing. Spock was lying under a simple white blanket, and Jim could see new bruising on his face,_ _his chest. His wrists were encircled with crude bandages that held patterns of seeping green blood. Jim stared as dark eyes suddenly opened and fastened on him and a strange electric feeling echoed through his own head. “T’hy’la.”_

_Spock!_ His eyes opened to an overwhelmingly bright light.

     “Jim! Jim.” The captain sensed the doctor’s presence immediately next to him, felt a strong grip on his hand. “Thank all that’s holy. Can you hear me?”

     He didn’t answer, shutting his eyes again and focusing everything he had on that place where the bond existed in his mind, a place that, before, had felt too raw and painful to touch, too empty. Now, however, amidst the rawness was the barest hint of warmth, and Jim probed harder, determinedly, sensing a dim, familiar presence. _His bondmate was alive._

     Jim abruptly opened his eyes again, blinking rapidly in the lights, a hoarse cry erupting from his dry and aching throat.

     “Jim!”

     He turned his head, taking in his friend’s frantic expression. “Bones. What happened? I need to talk to Coventry.” He coughed, frustrated at the deep feeling of weakness along his body, and his eyes widened as he tasted blood in his mouth. “Bones?”

     The doctor’s hand tightened on his, and McCoy’s voice was gentle. “Jim, you were poisoned. You almost died.”

     “Poisoned?”

     The doctor’s voice now held a dark edge. “Yeah. A poison carefully crafted to be very similar to the venom excreted by an arachnid species from the surface of Corolan Prime.” He released Jim’s hand and picked up a nearby PADD. “We had an antidote to that venom, in case of away team exposure on the surface, but the serum didn’t work. In fact, it seemed to only make things worse. You’re lucky that we’d encountered something similar in the Gamma Orulai system a few months back: a bioengineered neurotoxin that mimicked a natural substance. I had a hunch as to what to look for and was able to bring you out of it.”

     “How the hell... ?”

     The enraged expression on McCoy’s face was now barely restrained. “As far as I can tell, it could have been administered through food or drink at any time during the past few days. I found traces of a carrier substrate that may have had the effect of delaying the reaction within your system.”

     The captain lay still, forcing his mind to work, and the doctor continued, “Someone wanted to make it look like you picked up something deadly on the surface, while also getting around anything we may have already had on hand to cure you.”

    Jim shook his head. “Bones, I need to talk to Coventry.”

     He heard a sigh, and turned his head slightly to take in McCoy’s anxious expression. “Jim, you’re dead.”

     “What?”

     “Aside from me, Coventry, Uhura, and Sulu, everyone thinks you’re dead. The admiral wanted your survival kept under-wraps to aid in the investigation, make the culprits feel over-confident. You’ve been out for almost two days.”

     Jim struggled to lift his head from the pillow, grunting in frustration. “It’s not just an attack on me, Bones, there’s more going on here. We’ve got to get back to Prime.”

     The doctor shook his head. “No one’s going to Prime, Jim. The Federation Council is deadlocked. The report we sent up just before attempting contact is being considered, but the higher-ups at Fleet don’t want to risk war with the Klingons over what they consider unverified information. Even with the humanitarian crisis the way it is.” He hesitated. “And Coventry said that there’s been some questions raised over the timing of the invasion, like we may have had something to do with it.”

     Jim’s eyes blazed and he forced himself up, swaying on the biobed, feeling a surge of vertigo almost overcome him. “Narayan threatened me with that when I talked to him; that bastard’s trying to make this all look like a Starfleet fuck-up.”

     “Why?”

     Jim swung his legs over the edge of the bed. “Coventry wanted this kept under-wraps. The Admiralty is investigating a large, illegal operation involving exploitation of populations on several no-contact worlds, something leading back to Section Thirty-one and involving the Orions. I learned after we got back that we were sent to the Corolan system partially to try and flush out anything untoward going on there. Coventry thinks there’re Fed insiders leading it.”

     Bones stepped closer to Jim, and his eyes narrowed. “Insiders like Narayan?”

     “Yeah, “ Jim muttered darkly. “They’re making up a nice cover story, and my death makes it really fucking convenient to point fingers at us.”

     McCoy swore under his breath and Jim looked up at him, his blue eyes intense. “Bones. Spock’s alive.”

     McCoy tensed. “Jesus, Jim, you can’t do this to yourself. You’ve been out for a while, and under the influence of a serious substance with psychoactive properties. If he were alive, they would have beamed him up with us.”

     “I’m convinced that he was attacked by equipment brought down there by the members of this conspiracy, just like that Shrivth girl told us.” Jim paused. “If they had him, they wouldn’t let him go, he would know too much, be too much of a threat; especially if they were fucking around with psionic fields.” Jim saw McCoy frown. “I feel it, Bones; the bond. Maybe something needed to heal, or he just regained consciousness, or...I don’t fucking know. But it’s there, like before. I have to get back to that planet. If nothing else, I bet Spock knows enough to blow this whole conspiracy wide open.”

     Bones merely looked at him with pity in his eyes and Jim glanced around. “Where am I?”

     The doctor lowered his gaze. “You’re in the iso/decon chamber in the morgue. I’ve keyed the entrance to my code only.” He looked up at the captain. “Coventry’s orders are for you to stay put until further notice, Jim. You’re not going anywhere.”

 

 

 

     Even in the depths of trance, Spock could sense that he was alone. He had experienced a minimal awareness of the presence of another, a woman, her mental signature washing unchecked over his mind. The force from the device had burned away his shields and had left him with a sense of psionic exposure and openness that he had never before experienced. He felt the connection with Jim, aching and damaged from his own final attempts to retreat and protect his bondmate, and he could feel the sharp agony of the multitude of severed links and broken familial bonds remaining, unhealed, from the destruction of Vulcan. Normally carefully shielded, he was now relentlessly confronted with them and could not escape.

     Ironically, perhaps, the pain remaining from the fall of his world was now useful. With no one to help him out of the trance, and his mind now in danger of falling ever farther away from his control, he concentrated on the mindscape of grief and loss, embracing the pain as a focal point, pulling himself slowly, and with great effort, out of the recesses of the trance.

     He opened his eyes, finally, his chest heaving with harsh breaths, his limbs heavy with fatigue and shaking with cold, and his throat parched. He was in a bed, in a small room, the nearby window cracked open to admit the chill night air, and he forced himself to lie still for a moment, assessing his condition and his situation. He was still on Corolan Prime; that was obvious, but his time-sense was skewed. And his perception of Jim was wrought with distance; his bondmate was alive, and apparently had escaped or been rescued.

     His own body was healing, slowly, but was still weak, the stresses of Darumar, the shuttle explosion, and the torture at the hands of Pederson and the others almost overwhelming his ability to repair. And his mind... . Spock’s extraordinary psi-rating had astonished his teachers when he was a child, given his human ancestry. Shielding had been a skill that he had, by necessity, excelled at, and his abilities were formidable. Now, however, he could not practice even the rudiments, and he could sense _everything_. He took a calming breath, pulling the blanket further over his body in an attempt to warm himself. He remembered the thoughts of Pederson and the others streaming to him, the shocking knowledge of a deeply ingrained conspiracy, the horrifying realization of influential members of the Federation selling supposedly protected people into slavery or subjecting them to experimentation, testing equipment and weapons like the one used on him in preparation to sell the technology to the highest bidder. He knew that, if nothing else, he needed to relay his information to Command, something that required a better understanding of his current circumstances.

     He reached for Jim, probing along the bond. He felt something in response, a small perturbation. But there was no way to know how Jim truly perceived this contact: an echo, perhaps, or a fanciful construct. His bondmate was psi-null, and untrained, and their connection was still new, yet unconsummated by a deep meld or physical joining.

     Spock felt the psionic perturbation of the woman’s approach even before his sensitive ears picked up the sounds of her footsteps, remembering the echoes of her disgust and uncertainty as she had brought him here. He impelled himself to sit upright in the bed, feeling her current determination and resignation almost as physical things. She was alone, and she hesitated before stepping through the door to the adjacent room, carrying a small lamp for illumination, the light flickering along the walls. Her thoughts, couched in an alien language yet still decipherable through her emotional and mental imagery, whispered against his mind, and he realized that she was wondering if he was dead, and almost hoping for it.

     She entered his room and stopped on the threshold, staring at him. He watched her, feeling the flutter of her thoughts and emotions, so strong beneath the surface: _surprise, aversion, interest, fear_. She finally opened her mouth, speaking in halting Standard. “I am Kerla Sasia Deruk. Wife of the head priest. I took you from the humans. Who are you?”

     He could sense a feeling of guilt within her, thoughts and images of dealing with the humans and accepting their bribes and information, learning their language. He also sensed a strong yearning for survival, an instinct to do whatever was necessary. He licked his lips. “I am Spock.”

     “Not human.” Her thoughts hinted at a profound hatred associated with humans.

     “No.”

     “Vulcan.” Her emotions welled strongly, and he sensed anger and defiance warring against each other. She had learned the word from somewhere else: a communication from offworld.

     “Yes.”

     She frowned, and he noticed that her eyes were a shade of blue, striking even in the dim light. “The priest, my husband, is seeking you. The other humans want you dead. Why?”

     So, they knew of his information. Spock shifted in the bed, and he saw her eyes drift over his exposed torso, feeling her fight a strange mixture of fear, curiosity, and lust, followed by revulsion. He flinched slightly at the power of it. “I know of their operations here. They fear I will report my knowledge to my government.”

     “Federation?” At his acknowledgment, she remained silent for a moment, radiating a sense of calculation. “You...Federation...destroy the demons? Keep the humans away?”

     He could sense that she was referring also to the Klingons, and inclined his head.

     Her thoughts whirled, and he could feel that she was trying to come to a decision about something. He could see it: images of a plan to defy her husband, a surge of excitement, jealousy, pride and determination, a desire for power and a need to answer to no one. Her gaze, however, was unwavering. “I will help you.”

 

 

 

     “I need to speak to Coventry. Get Uhura to make the connection.” Jim’s voice was deadly quiet, his eyes cold.

     McCoy stared back just as intensely, his hazel eyes narrowed. His jaw clenched, and he turned abruptly towards the computer set up on the bench along the wall, turning the screen to keep Jim out of the background. He paged Nyota in a clipped tone, putting through the request, and then turned back to his friend.

     The silence in the room was powerful, and McCoy frowned, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck. “Jim, I need for you to understand how this looks from the outside.”

     “How what looks?”

     “This thing between you and Spock. What happened on Darumar... .” McCoy shrugged. “Everything was by-the-book after you were attacked. The threat was contained, and it was Spock’s prerogative to try to get you back. Hell, at the time I supported his decision completely. But looking back on it, he was just as affected as you are now, thinking he’d lost you. And when I beamed down there, and had to pull you off of his body, and you were screaming... . Sure, you both passed every psych eval I could throw at you, but I know emotional compromise when I see it.”

     “I’ve already been relieved of command, Doctor,” Jim said dryly.

     “Goddammit, Jim! I know you let him go, back on Prime, to ensure the survival of the rest of your crew. And I know what that did to you: ripped open wounds that were never closed in the first place. Darumar was never resolved, no matter how much you both pretended it was. Now taking into account the effects of the poison? Of you nearly dying again? You have to consider the possibility that your subconscious is compensating somehow for his loss, to cope with the trauma and the guilt you feel.”

     “We have a bond, Bones. I’m not making that up to _compensate_.”

     “I believe you, Jim. I believe you had a bond, and that you could feel something on that planet. But now... .” He pressed his lips together and was about to continue when a beep from the computer stopped him and he glanced over before looking back at the captain.

     Jim avoided his friend’s eyes, sliding off of the biobed and limping over to sit stubbornly in front of the computer screen. He keyed in a sequence and Coventry’s face appeared, her expression annoyed.

     “What is it, Captain? I made your status clear to your CMO and dead men don’t make calls.”

     “Admiral, respectfully, we need to go back to Corolan Prime.” Jim could almost feel McCoy wince behind him.

     Coventry exhaled. “That decision is out of my hands; the Federation Council is debating the issue right now.”

     Jim leaned forward. “Ma’am, we have a blatant Klingon incursion into Federation space and a humanitarian crisis on a no-contact world. Respectfully, it should be pretty cut and dry!”

     “Engaging the Klingons now would mean interplanetary war, Kirk, and that’s not an issue that can be taken lightly: it needs to have the unified backing of the Council, which we may indeed get soon, but don’t have presently.” She peered into the screen. “The Klingons are arguing for possession of that planet on the grounds that they held it already for twenty years, and they claim to have the consent of a planetary representative. They’re accusing us of an unprovoked incursion; our borders in that region have been ambiguous since Nero.”

     Jim snorted, and Coventry frowned. “And maybe you’re forgetting the reason you’re stuck in that room in the first place? Corolan Prime is just one example; there are other planets affected. The attempt on your life gives us a place to start, but we haven’t proven anything yet. And if this conspiracy goes as high as I think it does, we’re going to need something ironclad.”

     “The information you need to figure out who’s behind this mess is back on Prime, ma’am.”

     She peered at him. “What do you mean, Captain?”

     “Commander Spock is alive, Admiral.”

     She blinked, her mouth falling open, staring at Jim’s earnest expression.

     “Admiral, I know this sounds crazy, but... , ” Jim began, but she shook her head, pressing her lips together in a tight line and looking over Jim’s shoulder to where McCoy hovered in the background.

     “Doctor McCoy, what is the captain’s current status?”

     McCoy stepped forward to stand directly behind Jim. “Admiral, the captain is suffering from the after-effects of a particularly powerful psychoactive drug, as well as continued physical weakness.” The doctor took a breath. “He is also experiencing extreme emotional and mental stress after the recent traumatic events on Darumar and due to the violent loss of his bondmate.”

     Jim went rigid in his chair, staring at a corner of the screen, feelings of betrayal and helpless rage roiling within him. He distantly heard Coventry’s acknowledgment, and the repetition of her orders for him to stay hidden, for the time being. He was aware of the screen going dark, and McCoy shifting uncomfortably beside him.

     “I’m sorry, Jim.”

     His friend finally left, sealing and locking the doors behind him, and Jim was left with his thoughts: his doubts, his guilt, his simmering anger suddenly gone and a vague sense of confusion and grief remaining.

     It was disconcerting, not having McCoy fight for him, but Jim knew the doctor was trying, in his own way, to protect his friend. He closed his eyes, feeling within his mind for the hint of the bond that he had sensed earlier, trying to press down a rising feeling of panic and hopelessness. What if it had been a dream, influenced by the side effects of the poison? What if it had been a desperate fantasy built on denial, and grief, and stubbornness? He _reached_ , feeling his head ache and his eyes burn with unshed tears, seeking, calling, pushing his turbulent emotions and fears into a mental cry, using his perceptions of Spock’s own call, on the surface of Corolan Prime, as a guide.

     For a terrible moment, there was nothing, and Jim felt his heart threaten to descend into irrevocable darkness. And then, suddenly, there was the faintest pulse of response, and Jim’s eyes flew open. He stood, his strength still wavering, but his determination steely. _Hold on. I will come for you._ He didn’t imagine he felt an answer, but it didn’t matter. Spock was alive, and Jim had meant what he had said, before, when they had bonded: _Anything. My life, if necessary._ And he intended to keep his word.

 

 


	9. Without A Tether

Chapter Nine: Without A Tether

 

 

     Sasia sat on a chair in the corner of the small room, watching the alien eat. She had brought him water and a simple broth with mashed grain, along with some clothes. The plain shirt and pants hung on his lean frame, the cut of muscle on his body different from the general lack of definition of her own people’s physique, the dusting of dark hair on his chest as strange as the points of his ears and the dull smoothness of his skin. She had not looked away as he had dressed, even though she knew it was rude. She felt that she needed to maintain some sort of control over the situation, over this quiet alien who stared at her with such intensity in his dark eyes. She knew how she had felt when the demons had first come, before Deruk had conceived of his new religious order, before the demons had turned almost exclusively to the Shrivth-el to satisfy their lusts. They had used her for only a short time, tiring of her quickly, but she never forgot the feeling of shame and submission that came as their eyes had lingered on her nude form.

     He did not allow her to come near to touching him, and she was content to leave him his space. It was the strangest thing of all, how he seemed to flinch away randomly, and she had an underlying suspicion that he knew what she was thinking. It made her distinctly uncomfortable, and she repeatedly fingered one of the human weapons she had pried from their lifeless fingers, hidden in her cloak.

     Deruk wanted the alien. One of the humans had left a message on the priest’s hidden communications device and Sasia had translated it for her husband. Whoever Spock was, he was important enough that the humans insisted on his death, and therefore Deruk saw the potential for yet another advantage. And Sasia, trained to deceit by the actions of her spouse, envisioned her own schemes. Allowing the alien to contact his government may spell the end of the demons’ occupation, and, though it may lead to another set of conquerors, she might hold a stronger position than Kortai Deruk for the first time in her life. She would be in a position to rid herself of her husband once and for all.

     She paused in her anxious musings, noticing that the alien had stopped eating and was staring at her again, the skin around his eyes tight and his angular brows drawn together just slightly. He had not tried to escape or attack her, and she did not know how much of that was due to lingering weakness and injury or to a hidden plan. The thought that he might escape, leaving her with nothing, alarmed her, and she considered shooting him in the leg as a way to ensure his presence.

     “Why do you contemplate violence towards me after saving my life?”

     She startled even with the low, even timbre of his voice, and felt her face heat, now certain he could read her thoughts. She hastily pulled out the weapon, standing and aiming it at him. He calmly stayed seated on the bed, holding the cup of water in his hands.

     “Why... ?” She paused, gathering her words. “Why are you here?”

     The dark eyes were unblinking. “The Federation wishes to help your people.”

     She let out an expletive sharply, instinctive disbelief flashing through her, and saw him flinch again. He sat in silence for a moment, and she saw his shoulders straighten, as if he had come to a decision.

     “May I show you?” He raised a hand in her direction.

     She shrank back initially, raising the weapon, but his expression betrayed no fear and she began to feel silly. She recognized the gesture as something the Shrivth-el would do, before they tried to heal someone, and made her own decision, lowering the weapon and stepping towards him, her own hand slowly coming up to meet his. She felt the warm slide of his skin and then she gasped, her vision whiting out as his thoughts crashed into hers.

 

 

 

     It was quick work for Jim to break into the main security computer from the peripheral setup in the iso/decon chamber. His captain’s codes had been frozen out when he had been declared dead, but his backups had not been affected. It had been his idea, discussed with Spock over tea and coffee one night months before, to have backup access codes, known only to the command team, that would function if both the captain’s and XO’s access were denied, perhaps by the action of an enemy. Spock, as the primary administrator of the _Enterprise’s_ formidable computer banks, had put the backdoors in place himself, and Jim remembered the subtle feeling of illicit excitement at having logically convincing his Vulcan first officer to essentially hack a Starfleet system in a similar way to what Jim had done with his third _Kobayashi Maru_ test.

     Accessing the security net, Jim methodically shut down the monitors and locks on the Jeffries tubes and access tunnels that lay between his current location and the shuttle bay. He programmed a timed series of conflicting maintenance messages that would, hopefully, thwart any attempts to correct the breach, and remotely activated the pre-launch sequence on one of the long-range shuttles. He scrambled the override protocols across the entire ship and tripped the first access shaft, hearing the hiss of air coming from the panel directly above his head.

     Still dressed in his black sickbay jumpsuit, and barefoot, he pulled himself laboriously into the shaft, already out of breath, his head and body aching from the effort. By the time he arrived at the final access panel in the shuttle bay, his vision was swimming, and he laid his head back down against the wall, concentrating on breathing, again tasting blood in his mouth. Gathering himself, he keyed in his code and slipped through the opening, stepping out onto the vast deck on shaking legs, glancing back and forth before shuffling quickly towards the shuttle _Baliunas_. He was six meters from the shuttle doors when he heard a shocked shout from behind him. “Hey! Where are you... ?”

     A stun beam rocketed past him from the left, impacting the unsuspecting crewman and sending him flying against the bulkhead, and Jim twisted at the sound of booted feet approaching. His head spun at the sudden movement, and his vision wavered, and he was barely aware of an arm coming around his body, supporting him, and the scent of light perfume in the air before everything went hazy and he passed out.

 

 

 

     Sasia blinked her eyes, coming back to herself and realizing she was sitting on the floor, her weapon lying next to her. The alien, Spock, was still on the bed, his face even paler than before, eyes large and impossibly dark, and she could see his body shaking. Her head hurt with the sudden influx of his thoughts, of the images and perceptions that had streamed into her mind through their contact. Her soul hurt with the forced introspection, seeing with his eyes the damage wrought to her people and her planet. She felt tears well in her eyes and saw him flinch away, knowing now that the humans had inflicted injuries to his mind and that he couldn’t help but feel her emotions and thoughts.

     She clenched her hands into fists, trying to process what she had been shown. The Federation: an alliance of dozens of worlds, ideals of peace and justice, the shocking realization that all humans weren’t as the ones she had encountered, and the even more shocking understanding that Spock himself was half-human. She had felt the depth of his pain at the loss of his own world, and his grief at the agony that her people had suffered. All they had lost: language and music, art and life, the tranquil peace that now seemed so far away. She had shared her own shame, her own knowledge of her role in her people’s subjugation, the acts of her husband. She had sensed his understanding and had not felt his judgment.

     “I will bring the communications device.” She muttered the words, still lost in her own thoughts, and glanced up only to see him standing, his posture still weak, staring over her head. And she looked quickly behind her to see her husband framed in the doorway, his lavender eyes wide in triumph, a weapon in his hand and three men at his back. Sasia let out a shout, the remaining mist of the mind-touch shattering in the blast of her sudden anger. The grief and pain still hovering in her mind now had a focal point, and she felt a primal need for bloody revenge.

 

 

 

     “Captain!”

     Hikaru had just stepped onto the bridge and reluctantly slid into the center seat when the shout from a young ensign at the Security board startled him. He snapped up, striding over to the panel, where he could immediately see a number of blinking indicators. “Security breach?”

     “Yes, sir,” Ensign Fahed was breathless. “I’ve detected phaser fire on the main hanger deck and and now bay depressurization.”

     “Red alert. Try to override.”

     Fahed’s hands flew as the claxons suddenly blared overhead, and she glanced back up at Hikaru. “No good, sir, the overrides have been scrambled.” She hesitated, peering at her board. “By a command-level authorization, sir! We won’t have access until they cycle again in fifteen minutes!”

     Lieutenant Ling at the helm raised his voice. “Shuttle bay doors opening, sir! Shuttle _Baliunas_ exiting now!”

     Hikaru glanced over at the science station. “Mears, run a scan-I want to know who’s on that shuttle.” He looked over at communications, where the gamma shift officer was still on-duty. “Kearns, try to raise them. And page Lieutenant Uhura to the bridge.”

     “Aye, sir.” Mears glanced up from his scanners. “Reading two persons onboard, sir.”

     “Tractor beams?” Hikaru glanced at Ling.

     “No, sir. That system’s been subjected to a command-level scramble, too.”

     “No response from the shuttle, sir! And I’m having trouble locating Lieutenant Uhura; she’s not answering hails.” Kearns was staring at the viewscreen, where the shuttle suddenly disappeared into the snap and stretch of warp space. “They’re gone, sir.”

     Hikaru suddenly felt as if the floor had dropped out from under him, but he kept a determined look on his face, sensing all eyes on him. _Command-level scramble. Uhura missing._ He would bet his next paycheck that Jim Kirk was on that shuttle. Nodding sharply, he managed to keep his voice level. “Security alert one. Call Doctor McCoy to the bridge.”

     Kearns looked confused. “McCoy, sir?”

     Hikaru fixed her with a glare. “Right away, Ensign.”

 

 

 

     Jim jerked awake, feeling the subtle vibration of the warp engines where he slumped in a padded seat. He pushed at the armrests, straightening his body, seeing immediately that he was in the shuttle, and recognizing the sleek, dark ponytail on the person seated in front of him at the pilot’s controls.

     “Nyota... .” He coughed, wincing in frustration as he still felt the aftereffects of the attempt on his life.

     She spun in her seat, a strangely satisfied look on her face. “Welcome back, Jim.”

     “Where... ? How... ?”

     He couldn’t seem to finish his thought, and she smirked at him. “I listened in on your conversation with Coventry. I know Leonard thought he was doing the right thing, but he doesn’t know shit about Vulcan bonds.” Her eyes were intense on his. “You said Spock was alive and I believe you. We’re going to get him back and we're going to make this right.”

     Jim swallowed. “You realize that, even if we get him, we’re fucked.”

     Her gaze hardened. “And?”

     He blinked at her. “And...I guess you won’t have to call me ‘Captain’ anymore.”

     She smiled, reaching out and grasping his hand. “I’ll call you whatever you want, Jim.”

 

 

 

     Spock stood, taking an instinctively defensive posture as the four natives appeared in the doorway. The effect of the unshielded meld and Sasia’s powerful emotions had overwhelmed his mind, keeping him from feeling their approach until it was too late and there was nowhere to run. The leader stared at him, and Spock could sense the mixture of triumph and anger emanating from his mind. His companions, unarmed but of large stature, were radiating fear and aggression, and Sasia let out a sharp cry, her instantaneous apprehension, anger and bloodlust slamming over Spock’s senses.

 _Kortai Deruk_ , his mind supplied from what he had absorbed from the woman’s thoughts. _He has a communications device._ Spock watched as the man entered the room, his weapon held casually in his hand. Spock could sense Deruk’s arrogance, his sense of infallibility and contempt for his wife. The Shrivth priest barked something in his native language, and Sasia pushed herself into a crouch, her eyes flashing.

     Spock sensed the priest’s intentions; sensed what he planned to do, not only to Sasia, but to Spock himself. And sensing was enough. More than enough. The priest had turned to the Vulcan, preparing to gloat, when Spock moved, and despite his injuries, his strength and quickness were more than a match for Shrivth physiology.

     He had hit Deruk into unconsciousness and nerve-pinched one of the other men before anyone else budged, blocking a sloppy kick from one of the others before knocking him out with a well-placed punch. The final man had fallen backwards, scrambling in an attempt to escape, and Spock stepped forward, preparing to deliver another blow, when a flash of light from behind him slammed into the man’s midsection and Spock staggered. The weapon had been set to kill, and the bolt tore through flesh and bone with terrifying force. The man’s mental death scream ripped into the Vulcan’s mind, along with his pain, and Spock fell to his knees. He heard a wild yell from behind him, and saw three more brilliant flashes as Sasia fired into the prone bodies in front of her. The psionic death pulses buffeted Spock’s mind, and he choked on his own cry, pressing his hands to his head, feeling the woman’s anger and vengeance as a tangible thing. His mind was brutally open and vulnerable, and he crawled away, across the room, collapsing on the floor. He was dimly aware of Sasia’s voice saying something, but he could barely feel her over the rawness of his mind.

     He struggled for breath, hearing Sasia now yelling at him, and he forced his eyes open, seeing her leaning down, reaching for him. It was too much, the power of her emotions pounding into his mind in this close proximity, and his hand reflexively snapped out, connecting with the junction of her neck and shoulder, feeling her thoughts fade into the background wash of unconsciousness and hearing her weapon clatter to the floor.

     Spock turned onto his back, lying silently for a moment, allowing the lingering burn of the psionic overexposure to recede, suddenly overwhelmed by an illogical longing for his bondmate’s presence: cool skin, and the soothing dynamism of Jim’s thoughts. Taking a breath, he forced the feeling away, concentrating on what he needed to do. Securing a communications device was imperative, but attempting to find Deruk’s device, or stealing a Klingon transmitter had extremely low probabilities of success. He remembered a thought he had gleaned from Pederson’s mind: of remote equipment, sensors scattered across the populated center and surrounding areas. Sasia’s mind had informed him that the majority of the humans’ equipment had vanished with Pederson, but perhaps the remotes were still there, and active. And perhaps they could be reconfigured to produce a signal. Perhaps. It was a chance, and he pushed himself up, retrieving Sasia’s weapon, looking through the open door at the near forest, thick and forbidding.

 

 

 

     Hikaru and McCoy stood shoulder to shoulder, facing the large viewscreen on the wall of the main briefing room. On-screen, Admiral Coventry was apoplectic.

     “Kirk broke security and is on his way back to Corolan Prime, against express orders, right into an interstellar incident that’ll probably mean war. And you two just let it happen.”

     Hikaru tensed, but McCoy leaned forward. “Respectfully, ma’am, he is attempting to retrieve a Starfleet officer missing in the line of duty. One who may hold valuable information that is crucial to the current crisis.”

     “Commander Spock is presumed dead. Are you telling me you now believe Kirk’s assertion that he’s alive? Or was all that business before just you buying him plausible deniability on the grounds of a mental lapse?”

     “I don’t know if he’s alive, Admiral, but I also don’t fully understand the bond they share." He paused. "However, if he is alive, and we can’t go in ourselves, then Kirk may be the best bet to get him out.”

     Coventry’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Right. Your loyalty is commendable, Doctor, but Kirk is still guilty of disobeying direct orders, theft of Starfleet property, and probably a dozen other charges; he’ll never see the center seat again.” She shook her head. “I don’t suppose you have any security footage of the incident?”

     Hikaru cleared his throat. “Uh, no, Admiral. The security feeds were off-line, and the single witness cannot confirm what he saw. He, uh, took a pretty good blow to the head, ma’am.”

     “I bet.” Coventry rubbed a hand over her eyes. “You are not to go after him. And if things go bad, then all of this is going to fall squarely on his shoulders. And yours.” She glared at them. “You get me?”

     McCoy and Hikaru glanced at each other and then back at the screen. “Yes, ma’am.”

     The screen went dark, and Hikaru sank into one of the chairs around the large table. “Shit.”

     McCoy crossed his arms tiredly. “Yeah, no shit.”

     The acting captain looked at the doctor. “What are the odds Spock’s still alive?”

     McCoy shrugged. “I don’t know. Jim’s convinced, but he was in pretty bad shape, physically and mentally. And we both know how far he’ll go for that Vulcan.”

     Hikaru furrowed his brow, remembering a desperate leap off of a drilling platform into the skies of a dying world as well as a selfless climb into a radiation-filled chamber. “How far he’ll go for any of us.”

     McCoy winced, and he stepped forward, clasping Hikaru’s shoulder. The contemplative silence lingered for a moment, and then a hail sounded over the intercom. “Bridge to Acting Captain.”

     Hikaru reached over and flipped the switch. “Sulu, here. Go ahead.”

     “Mears, sir. Long-range sensors have picked up the warp signature of another craft, currently on an pursuit course to the stolen shuttle.”

     The two men exchanged another glance and Hikaru bent closer to the speaker. “Identity?”

     Mears hesitated. “It looks like an Andorian class-J interceptor-cruiser, sir. Recently known to be operated by the Orion syndicate.”

     Hikaru’s jaw tensed. “Thank you, Lieutenant. Keep sensor lock as long as possible.” He flipped the channel closed and looked at McCoy, shaking his head. “Orions.”

     “Goddammit, Jim.” The doctor’s harsh utterance was almost a whisper, and both men stared at the now-silent comm panel, as if it could hold their answers.

 

 


	10. We Fall Together

Chapter Ten: We Fall Together

 

 

     Jim had changed into a pair of dark fatigues, a long-sleeved shirt, and boots, courtesy of Nyota, who also had exchanged her uniform for something similarly nondescript. They were travelling at the shuttle’s maximum speed, ETA approximately eleven hours to Sigma Corolan, and the gravity of what they were doing seemed to hang in the air, countered only by their shared determination. He glanced over at Nyota from the co-pilot’s seat, seeing the faint lines of tension around her mouth, the tight set of her shoulders. He imagined that he didn’t look much better, feeling the persistent weakness from the poison, his body sore and the taste of blood lingering alarmingly in his mouth.

     She seemed to shake herself, sensing his regard, and turned to look at him, her dark eyes intense. “You okay, Jim?”

     He nodded, studying her face. “You love him.” He flinched slightly as the words came out of his mouth, well aware that her presence alone on this desperate mission was evidence of that.

     He could see the change of expression on her face as a subtle widening of her eyes, a twitch of the muscles of her jaw. She stared at him for a long moment before replying, “Of course I do. I always have.”

     He averted his eyes, remembering the months after Khan, when he and Spock had drifted ever closer and Nyota ever further away. He had never openly asked about the obvious change in their relationship and neither Spock nor Nyota had ever brought it up.

     Her gaze had not shifted. “We never shared a bond, Jim; in that respect, he’s yours. And he may be your _t’hy’la_ , but he’s still my closest friend.” She looked forward again, intently, as if daring him to argue, or to shield herself from further questions.

     Jim watched her profile for a moment, seeing the barest tremble of her mouth, the slightest shine to her eyes. He raised his eyebrows and looked forward as well, staring at the viewscreen. “I’m sorry.” He heard her swallow and continued, “You’re my friend, too, Ny. My family.”

     He glanced over to see her press her lips together and lower her eyes, and he tilted his head. “And it’s a good thing we’re both here; Spock won’t know which of us to blame when he finds out we’ve gone AWOL.”

     He heard a choked snort. “Oh, he’ll blame you.” And he let the smallest of smiles cross his lips, feeling her hand clasp his, again. They sat in silence for a moment, listening to the hiss of air through the vents and watching the tunnel of warp space stretch out in front of them on the viewscreen, thinking of a beloved soul: a lost friend and lover, and of a choice that neither of them would change.

     A sudden flash and beep from the comm panel drew their attention, and Nyota released Jim’s hand to flip switches. He leaned forward, seeing her press her hand to her earpiece. She listened, her eyes widening, and glanced at him. “Jim, do a sensor sweep along our stern, max range. You’re looking for an interceptor following us, possibly concealed in our wash.”

     His lips parted in alarm, and he turned to the sensor board, tuning in the search parameters and scanning. “Shit.”

     “Yeah?” She made a face, pulling the earpiece out and gripping it tightly. “Hikaru just sent an encoded message. That’s an Orion ship, from the looks of it, following our warp trail. He says we’re on our own-Coventry knows.”

     Jim glanced over. “That ship’s not getting any closer. I bet they’re waiting to see what we do.” He chewed his lip. “There’s still a pretty good chance we get pasted by the Klingons as soon as we get near that planet.”

     She watched him, and he took a breath. “The appearance of that ship pretty much confirms active Orion involvement, and if Spock knows what I think he knows, then he can provide the info for Coventry to connect the dots and break open this conspiracy, and possibly the Council impasse.”

     Nyota grunted. “But if we fuck up... .”

     Jim nodded. “If we fuck up, Starfleet’s going to let us take the heat.”

     She licked her lips. “So, let’s not fuck up, then. We can start with how we’re going to get onto that planet in a marked Starfleet shuttle without being seen by an orbiting Klingon armada.”

     Jim smiled. “Ever run the simulator program for a hot planetary approach from a solar-normal trajectory?

 

 

 

     Callum Fergus stood directly behind the Orion helm officer on the pirate craft. He had pulled in all manner of favors to secure the captain’s cooperation, and now, as they maneuvered behind the Starfleet shuttle, just far enough away to avoid obvious detection, he considered his efforts well worth it.

     Kirk was dead, and Pederson too, by Fergus’ hand. Narayan had returned to Earth, and, as far as Fergus was aware, was doing an excellent job keeping the Council at odds with itself by blaming the situation on Kirk and questioning his motives and actions. But, curiously, the _Enterprise_ had remained just hours away from the Corolan system in a passive station-keeping position and Fergus had not received any sort of confirmation message from the priest on Prime about Spock’s body. Fergus had a terrifying notion that the Vulcan had somehow managed to evade death and, now, with the launch of a long-range shuttle obviously on a direct course for the contested planet, he considered his suspicions all but confirmed.

     The Orion captain grunted sharply from behind him, and Fergus turned, stepping back almost involuntarily as the large alien crowded into his personal space. Marklahd was the nephew of one of the syndicate’s top leaders and his family had benefited most richly from Narayan’s schemes. “I tell you again, human, we are not going to engage the Klingons. And I am not going to fire on a Starfleet shuttle.”

     Fergus glanced over to the far side of the bridge, where three of his hired human mercenaries stood nervously, watching him. “You won’t need to do any of that. If that ship makes it to the planet, I just need to be transported down with my men to their location. We’ll take care of our business and then transport back up. With your payment.”

     Marklahd stared at him. “The Vulcan better be alive. Dead men bring no credits, however exotic.”

     Fergus gritted his teeth, feeling a sweat break out over his forehead. “Of course.”

     The Orion’s eyes flicked over the human’s form, and then he grunted again, turning back to his command chair. Fergus let out a breath, grimacing and walking over to stand closer to his men. If Spock were still alive, the Orions would ensure he wouldn’t be in a position to say anything for very long. And if he were already dead, then Fergus would simply have to come up with another payment to satisfy the Orion captain. Either way, he knew that Narayan would be expecting his report soon. And he held no illusions as to his continued survival if he were to fail.

 

 

 

     It was several hours before Spock managed to find one of the remote sensor beacons, and even more time spent attempting to evaluate and modify its components. He had found a set of tools remaining in the original outbuilding where he had been subjected to the machine, remaining from the humans’ occupation, but it was largely inadequate to the task, and he was losing both daylight and strength. He paused from his work, relinquishing his concentration, and looked around him.

     He was high above the valley, hidden within the dense forest near the rushing river, the tall gray peaks of the mountain range soaring above him. Boulders and scrub bushes surrounded him on all sides, and the temperature was steadily dropping as the daylight retreated. His mind was still open, and exposed, and any attempt at regaining his shields had been met with splitting agony and frustration. He could still sense the background hum of alien minds and could still feel the harsh mindscape of severed bonds. He did not know what had become of Sasia, only that she had not attempted to follow him. The frequency of Klingon patrols was also minimal, and Spock could only speculate that the size of the landing force was limiting their ability to effectively control the population in addition to maintaining peripheral ground security.

     Spock looked up to the sky, just visible through the forest canopy, turning a deepening purple color as night approached. The bond with Jim was strengthening, growing ever more powerful, ever more clear. He could now sense, faintly, his bondmate’s overwhelming stubbornness and focus, even with the remaining distance, and knew that Jim was on his way back to Corolan Prime. Back to him.

     The Vulcan looked down, again, at the dismantled sensor, supplemented with components from the weapon he had taken from Sasia. He had determined that the probability of producing a readable long range signal, even with reconfiguring the power packs on the energy weapon, was almost zero; however, his bondmate’s imminent approach changed his strategy. Spock knew that Jim’s ability to manipulate and discern the bond was limited, but he could estimate that Jim would be looking for Vulcanoid life signs, or even a signal of some sort. He took a breath and picked up the tool set again, considering how quickly he could attempt another modification before the ambient light completely gave out.

     And then he felt it: the gradual press of a mind, coming closer, and another, and another. He instinctively attempted to shield, and couldn’t help a small noise of pain as his injured mind rebelled. The alien minds were Shrivth, and yet, weren’t. There was an underlying psionic power and sense of control that had been most lacking in his experience with Sasia’s thoughts. And they were searching, stretching out. He physically pressed back against a large tree, knowing that it was fruitless. Even though it seemed evident that his own abilities were more sensitive, they would inevitably find him. And indeed, as they continued forward, and his hearing picked up the sound of careful footfalls, he felt the creeping tendrils of thought brush against his mind and sensed the bright flare of discovery.

     There was a split-second when he could sense the barest hint of _excitement, relief, anxiety_ , and then the alien minds together focused on his own, and he flinched back helplessly, unable to shield, unable to protect himself. He let out another involuntary noise, raising his hands defensively to his temples, and suddenly the onslaught was gone, hidden, shielded. He lowered his hands, opening his eyes to see a young Shrivth woman standing before him, unarmed, dressed in white, almost luminous against the growing gloom. Her presence was now a muted thing in his mind, yet he could still sense anguish and apology from her. She stared at him, and he could feel her shields shift, allowing images and thoughts to stream to him in a controlled manner, her own psi-sensitivity permitting a subconscious translation.  _Spock. I am Feriah. You are safe with us. I am happy to find you alive._

     She had sensed his mental call to Jim, the same one that had activated the sensors and brought Pederson and the others to him. And she had found Jim, and communicated with him. She had felt Jim’s distress and pain as the machine had forced relentless energy into the human’s mind, through the bond, and had witnessed his, and the others’, rescue. Spock responded, confirming her perceptions of how the humans had intended to use her people, and he flinched as a wave of anger and sadness for his own suffering washed over him, followed by anticipation as she sensed that Jim was returning.

_We will shield. Return with us; he may begin the search from where he departed._

     She gestured, stepping back, being demonstrably careful not to touch him as he stood up slowly, wavering on unsteady legs, gathering the tools and the dismantled equipment, and followed her and her people into the darkness.

 

 

 

     “We’re approaching the outer mark. Ready to cut in braking thrusters on your command.”

     Jim and Nyota had switched seats, and he was handling the controls. The Orion ship had stayed with them up until this point, but Jim was hoping to change that. They had come in normal to the orbital plane, at warp, almost directly towards the star, before shearing away sharply on final approach to the planet, along an isopotential line. Their ionization trail might be taken as the protonation wash of a solar flare event, and such a sharp trajectory and speed was not a pattern usually scanned for. Jim was taking a guess, and had calculated a landing spot near the cave system that they had been rescued from. It was relatively close to where the _Arroway_ had crashed and Spock had originally disappeared, and Jim had a feeling that Feriah and her people would be able to help him find the Vulcan, as they had located the captain, before.

     “Ready on thrusters.” Jim heard the sharp beeping on the proximity alarms, heard the automated computer voice impassively inform him that they were dangerously skating the gravity well. He ignored them. “Three...two...one...mark!”

     Nyota pulled a lever backward and the engines shrieked as the shuttle abruptly tumbled out of warp space and immediately hit the planet’s gravitational envelope. The bulkheads shuddered, and the inertial dampeners momentarily failed. Alarms screamed within the cabin.

     “Warp engines took a hit, Jim! We’re falling; ten-thousand meters, eight-thousand meters... .”

     Jim waited until her countdown hit one-thousand meters before cutting in the impulse engines on short bursts, braking the craft in jarring spurts before switching to thrusters. They dropped into the landing with practically zero glide, directly into a small clearing and Jim immediately powered down the engines, his breathing coming in gasps.

     Nyota appeared as if she was about to be sick, but her hands were steady on the controls. “Running a prelim scan.”

     Jim shut down the running lights and nonessential systems, keeping comms and scanners on full readiness.

     She looked up, and met his eyes. “No indication of Klingon detection. Their craft are still following a standard orbital configuration, and I’m not receiving anything on normal comm channels.” She adjusted the scanners. “No sign of the Orions, either. Maybe we lost them.”

     “They might be figuring out how to get in around the Klingons.” His half-smile vanished. “Or they’re just waiting for us to leave.”

     Nyota raised her eyes, deep emotion evident in her dark gaze. “Jim, I’ve got a faint reading corresponding to Vulcan physiology. The precise locator is obscured, somehow, but it’s directionally coming from that cave system up ahead.” She shook her head in disbelief. “You were right. Remind me to never question your hunches again.”

     “It makes sense that a telepath might find another telepath, especially if everyone else on the planet is an enemy. Way to go, Feriah.”

     Nyota released her restraints and jumped up, turning to the equipment locker and pulling out a standard medkit and tricorder as well as phasers and communicators, tossing one of each of the latter to Jim. He caught them and stood too quickly, abruptly stumbling, swaying and grasping the back of his seat before Nyota reached out, steadying him. “You okay?”

     He took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders, his eyes bright. “Yeah. Let’s go get him.”

 

 

 

     As Jim and Nyota climbed towards the cave entrance, he kept his mind focused on the perception of the bond in his head. It was growing steadily stronger, a warmth and background presence that increased with every step. He moved even faster, pushing his still-aching body, aware of Nyota’s breathing increasing as she kept up with him. They moved past the cave entrance, slipping into the cool darkness and away from the bright sunlight outside. Jim pressed onwards, towards the dimmer interior where, just days before, he and his crew had sought shelter. He stopped, looking around, reaching with his mind. His sense of the bond was more intense than ever, and was continuing to grow, and he peered into the darkness with frantic anticipation.

     “Spock?” He heard movement from deeper into the cave, from within the pitch-black passageway, and then he felt it, as if being hit by a wave: his bondmate’s mind, his thoughts, pouring powerfully into their connection. He gasped, wincing, bringing a hand to his forehead. What had, before, been a gentle, controlled exchange of thoughts, whispers against his mind, was now a torrent of unshielded information, images, emotions, all driven by inhuman energy. He grunted, swaying, hearing Nyota’s voice rising in a panicked question. And then he saw a familiar figure emerge from the darkness, saw wide dark eyes filled with recognition, felt a profound sense of love superpose the screaming bond, and, despite the tumult pouring into his mind, felt his soul leap.

     “Spock!” He pushed himself forward, seeing his bondmate do the same, and threw himself towards the Vulcan’s body, feeling arms go around him in turn as they both crumpled to the ground, holding onto each other. Jim’s vision went in and out, the strength of his bondmate’s mind overwhelming him as they touched, but he couldn’t let go, he refused to let go. He heard Spock’s voice as if from a distance, and Nyota’s answer, sensed her sudden presence next to them through Spock’s perceptions, and heard the hiss of a hypo. Spock’s body suddenly shuddered and tensed in Jim’s arms, a soft cry pressed into Jim’s neck, and then the clamor vanished, the bond was silent, and Jim was shockingly alone in his head.

     Disoriented and terrified by the abrupt disappearance of his bondmate’s mental presence, Jim clung ever stronger to the warmth of Spock’s body, feeling it shake again, and then go lax, his head falling limply onto Jim’s shoulder.

     “Nyota?” Jim raised his eyes desperately, seeing her face streaked with tears, a hypo still in her hand, the medkit haphazardly open on the rock beside her.

     “I gave him kisandromine, Jim. He told me to do it, said he couldn’t shield. He said he was hurting you through the bond when you’re this close.”

     Chest heaving, his blood pounding in time with his still-sore head, Jim shifted so that his back was against the near wall, still stubbornly holding Spock’s unconscious body against him, feeling the reassuring thrum of the Vulcan’s rapid heartbeat. He forced himself to take a deep breath, hearing the shuffle of footsteps hurrying from deeper in the cave, and seeing Feriah and two other Shrivth-el appear, their expressions distraught.

     Feriah stared at Jim and Spock and directed a trembling question to Nyota, who shook her head and responded in kind before turning to Jim. “I said I had to give him medicine to stop his telepathy temporarily, because it was hurting his mate.” Nyota raised her tricorder to scan the Vulcan. “He’s unconscious, but I think that’s expected with the shock of losing his psi-abilities like that. Are you alright now, Jim?”

     Jim absently nodded, clinging to Spock’s body, his eyes unfocused as his brain slowly parsed through the thoughts he had sensed through their connection, before the psi-blocker had taken effect. He grimaced, suddenly understanding, and couldn’t help a white-hot flare of anger as he knew what had happened, and who was behind it.

     “I know who did it, Nyota. I know who hurt Spock, and who’s behind the conspiracy. This is going to shake the Federation to its core.”

 

 


	11. Line Of Fire

Chapter Eleven: Line Of Fire

 

 

     Jim had refused to move his bondmate, despite Feriah’s insistence that they were welcome into the hidden, interior Shrivth-el chambers deeper in the cave. Instead, he had remained seated against the rough wall, holding his friend tightly against him, knowing that as soon as the Vulcan was able to move, they would need to get back to the shuttle. He only hoped that Spock would be well enough to send the message; something told him that his first officer’s recognized voiceprint would go farther than anything else in convincing Coventry of the real situation on Corolan Prime, and of the truth behind the conspiracy.

     Nyota had drawn the attention of the Shrivth-el away from the two men, conversing with the aliens in low tones several paces away, and Jim was content to simply be, for a moment, feeling the lean hardness of Spock’s body, the softness of his breath, the familiar warmth that he had feared never to experience again. He pushed aside, briefly, the immediacy of their still-desperate situation and the uncertainty that lay ahead and pressed his lips into Spock’s hair, remembering the gentle kiss that they had shared before everything had fallen apart. A kiss that had spoken of love, and loyalty, of a need to protect, and a question that had been, as of then, unanswered. As Jim held his bondmate to him, he knew that answer now. The harshly-felt absence of the Vulcan had torn through the self-imposed hesitancy, guilt and fear that had hung heavy between them after Darumar, and Jim now wanted nothing else but to touch and caress, to love, physically; the contact between their bodies reaffirming for him the truth of Spock’s life, and their future.

     Jim’s own body was still sore, still weakened. He had not eaten since awakening in the morgue; had only been able to stomach some water, cringing at the disturbing, persistent taste of blood and the dull, occasional cramp in his stomach. His head felt oddly heavy and muddled, the silence of the bond more disconcerting than he would have expected, and he found himself pulling Spock even closer, wrapping himself around the Vulcan and breathing him in, relying on simple human methods to reassure himself and to, hopefully, transmit comfort to his friend. Lost in thought, Jim startled as he felt the body pressed against his stir, and the captain raised his own head. “Nyota!”

     She looked over, and murmured something to the Shrivth-el before quickly crossing to crouch next to Jim and Spock. “Is he waking up?”

     “Yeah.” Jim shook his head. “I still can’t feel the bond.” He met her eyes. “How is he going to take this, if his telepathy’s cut off?”

     She frowned. “I don’t know. It’s temporary, but it’s pretty effective, and it’ll probably also affect his coordination and controls.” She looked at him helplessly, and shrugged. “You got the same briefing I did.”

     Jim set his jaw, remembering McCoy’s decision to add the psi-blocker to the standard away-team medkit inventory after Darumar. The drug muted the psi-centers in the brain in humans and in other species, and could have serious side effects.

     Spock stirred again, and his body tensed as his eyes opened, and widened. His breathing grew rapid, and then ragged, almost panicked, and he struggled briefly in Jim’s arms, pushing against him to sit upright. “No. I cannot... .”

     “It’s alright. Spock, it’s alright. It’s just the drug.”

     Spock’s hands clasped tightly onto Jim’s biceps, as if he were clinging for dear life, his eyes now searching the human’s expression. “Jim?”

     “I’m here, it’s alright. Spock, listen to me, it’s the kisandromine; remember? Nyota gave it to you because your shields were gone.” Jim met his eyes intently. “We’ve got to get out of here, got to inform Starfleet of what you know. Are you okay to move?”

     The Vulcan looked away slightly, obviously gathering himself, his grip on Jim’s arms relaxing. When he met Jim’s gaze again, the confusion had gone from his eyes, and his breathing had calmed. He released a hand to hold up in front of him, and almost experimentally touched two fingers to Jim’s face, flinching and lowering his hand again as their skin made contact. Jim watched him carefully, seeing the battle for control reflected subtly in his expression, and then Spock looked over at Nyota.

     She beamed at him, fresh tears welling in her lovely eyes, reaching out to briefly touch his shoulder. “We’re taking you home, _tal-kam_.”

     Spock inclined his head. “Thank you, Nyota.” He looked at his bondmate again. “Jim.”

     Jim smiled at him, a little sadly. He may not be able to currently sense Spock’s mind, but he was intuitive enough to know that the Vulcan was thinking of the consequences of Jim’s decision to go after him, the knowledge passing through their bond before it went dark.

     Feriah had quietly moved to stand next to Nyota, and watched as Jim and the communications officer both helped Spock to his feet. Jim kept a firm arm around his bondmate, feeling Spock’s unsteadiness, and glanced over at the young Shrivth-el woman. “We’ve got to go. If they come looking for us, I don’t want to lead them right to you.”

     Nyota translated, and Feriah’s expression shifted as she replied, her usually quiet tones more insistent. Nyota turned to Jim. “She wants to know if we can save them from the Klingons. She wants to know if we’ll be back.”

     Jim shook his head. “We may not even survive getting off this planet. I’m sorry.”

     The alien woman listened to Nyota and stepped even closer, holding out her hand. “Please. Jim.” The emotion vibrated through her tentative Standard.

     Jim swallowed and reached forward, touching her hand and feeling the feathery sensation of her mind brush against his, sending her his solemn promise not to forget her or her world, to do everything he could to convince the Federation to return, and thanking her for her help.

     Feriah withdrew her hand, a tear running down her cheek, and had opened her mouth to say something else when bright golden light suddenly filled the cave and she let out a scream instead, scrambling backwards.

     Jim pushed Spock behind him, reaching for his phaser at the same time as Nyota drew her own, seeing just a glimpse of humans dressed in black, and a familiar hawkish face, twisted in shock.

 

 

 

     Junior sensor officer Kahlar sat stiffly at his post on the bird of prey currently orbiting the world simply known as _toy'wI''a' yuQmey_. It had been a glorious undertaking thus far: the appearance of the armada had run off the Federation battle cruiser almost immediately, and although they had lost one hunter-seeker in a battle with a fleeing human shuttlecraft, the shuttlecraft and its crew had been destroyed as well. Surface forces had wasted no time re-taking the key populated centers, and despite the small number of _tlhInganpu'_ in this invasion force, little resistance had been encountered.

     The partnership with the weakling _lalDanyaS_ , Deruk, had been most beneficial, and his wife had even provided the new planetary governor, Kherless, with a ship belonging to a rogue band of human slave smugglers. The smugglers themselves had yet to be found, but the wanderings of a few _tera' Ha'DIbaH_ did not warrant much attention. Especially as the Federation cowards seemed to be content to stupidly leave the planet, and its vast dilithium deposits, without so much as a shot fired.

     It would have been interesting, to enter finally into war with the Federation. The loss of the fleet to Nero had been a source of much shame, and honor could only be regained in the glory of battle. Kahlar took a breath, blinking suddenly at the appearance of an amber light on his panels. Leaning forward, he examined the readouts. There had been two anomalous sets of readings since they had arrived: the first occurred within a planetary day of the arrival of the armada, and the second just recently. Both were easily explained by natural events: a shifting ionization band in the high atmosphere producing intermittent energy spikes, and then protonation associated with solar flare activity. Now, however, the signal was more definitive, being something he had encountered before.

     “ _HoD! So'wI'!”_

His captain growled a response from his chair, “ _'oH ngu'_.”

     “ _orion, HoD_.”

     The captain barked orders to intercept, and the bird of prey broke orbit immediately to intercept. The appearance of the Orions was not completely unexpected, especially if human smugglers had been here. But they would need to be taught a lesson; this planet was under _tlhIngan_ control now.

     As they came about on the last known position of the cloaked Orion’s signature, the captain ordered a proximity bombardment, and the first disruptor bolts had barely left their tubes before there was a strong sensor pulse, and the pirate ship became visible briefly before turning and snapping into warp.

     The bridge crew broke into spontaneous laughter at the cowardice of the pirates, and the captain ordered a return to orbit, barking a command at Kahlar to perform a series of surface scans. Just to see what they were up to.

 

 

 

     The brilliance of phaser bolts lit up the cave, and Jim and Nyota pressed back against opposing cold walls, returning a desperate spread against their attackers. Feriah and the other Shrivth-el had disappeared back into the dark passageway, and Spock, weaponless, crouched behind Jim.

     They traded fire, their attackers forced to find cover behind intervening outcrops of rock, losing a direct line of sight. Slowly, the pace of firing slowed, and Jim heard Fergus’ voice. “Captain Kirk! I thought you were dead! A miracle, I suppose.”

     “Something like that.” Jim’s reply was dry, and his mind raced. He felt a gentle touch on his shoulder, felt Spock slip away behind him, moving against the wall, and suddenly the Vulcan was gone. Jim inwardly swore, wishing desperately for their mental communication.

     “You’re outnumbered, Kirk!” Fergus called. “There’s only one way you’re getting out of here.”

     “What’s that?” Jim met Nyota’s eyes, and she shook her head slightly. No way out ahead, and they weren’t about to lead Fergus and the others directly to the Shrivth-el.

     He heard Fergus chuckle. “Dead. Think of it as a return to rights. I’ll need your Vulcan, though. The Orions are awfully excited to get their hands on him. I’ll let them decide if they want the lady or not.”

     “Fuck you.” Frustrated, Jim fired a shot into the rock near Fergus’ location.

     There was another cackling chuckle, “You can only blame yourself for this mess, Kirk. You should have... .”

     His words were suddenly interrupted by the sound of an impact, a rush of movement, and sudden, alarmed shouting, as another volley of phaser fire began, this time focused towards the entrance of the cave.

     “Nyota! Now!” Jim pushed himself away from the wall, moving forward, his weapon out, firing rapidly. Two of the attackers had exposed themselves as they re-directed their fire, and Jim stunned both of them before they knew he was coming. Jim hit the rock floor, as another shout turned into phaser fire aimed directly at him, and crawled behind cover.

     The frantic firing continued, and Jim heard Nyota cry out just before there was another shout, a male voice, the blasts abruptly stopping and the sound of a body hitting the rock echoing through the cave.

     Jim gritted his teeth, and had tensed to spring up when he heard Spock’s voice, coming from the direction of the entrance. “Jim!”

     Pushing himself up, his stomach cramping sharply, Jim cautiously raised his head, quickly taking in the Vulcan standing near one of the jutting outcrops, a phaser pointed at Fergus’ prone body. Standing up completely, Jim scanned the area. “Nyota?”

     “Here, Jim.” She stood up herself, across from him, and he could see the way she was favoring her leg.

     He moved to her, and wrapped an arm around her body, supporting some of her weight, his own ears still ringing from the echoing blasts and his body aching. As they made their way towards Spock, Jim saw the unconscious bodies of the other attackers sprawled on the floor. Unconscious, it seemed, all but one. The body nearest to the entrance had eyes open and staring, the dark stain of blood oozing thickly from a gaping head wound, a fist-sized rock lying next to the limp form.

     Averting his eyes, Jim guided Nyota over to Spock. The Vulcan was deathly pale, the phaser shaking even as he gripped it with both hands.

     Fergus was conscious, barely, and he glared up at the three officers. “My ship...my ship will be monitoring...you’re going to pay for this.”

     Jim simply fired another stun beam into the man’s body and Spock suddenly stumbled sideways and sat down. Nyota pulled away from the captain to kneel awkwardly next to the Vulcan, her face crumpling with worry as he uncharacteristically leaned into her.

     “You okay?” Jim addressed the question to Nyota, knowing that Spock was most definitely not.

     “I’ll live.” She looked up at him. “Jim, if that’s bastard’s lying, or telling the truth, we have to get that message sent right away. It’s more important than any of us, and... .”

     Her voice trailed off, and Jim finished, “And whether it’s his Orion allies or the Klingons, there’s a pretty fucking good chance we won’t make it out of here.”

     She gazed at him, and he regarded Spock, who looked back at him with slightly unfocused eyes. Jim moved forward, crouching in front of his bondmate. “Transmitting from the surface is the best bet to get the message away, but if someone’s scanning, our position will be compromised almost immediately.”

     Spock slowly nodded, his voice quiet. “We record. Transmit. And then run.”

     Nyota nodded as well. “Best bet.” She jerked her chin towards Fergus. “But, we take him with us. Maybe I’ll get a chance to toss him out an airlock, or we get lucky and hand-deliver him to Coventry.” She gave a wry half-smile. “Maybe that’ll keep us out of a penal colony.”

     A soft sound from deeper in the cave made Jim turn sharply around, his weapon ready. Feriah stood there, holding one of the phasers from the unconscious humans, several Shrivth-el flanking her. She murmured something in her own language, and Nyota snorted delicately, glancing at Jim. “She says that she’ll clean up this mess.”

     Jim met Feriah’s lavender eyes, and noted a new hardness there. Slowly, his shoulders bowed under the weight of the new knowledge reflected in the young woman’s steady gaze, he nodded and got to his feet, reaching down and helping Spock and Nyota up as well. “Thank you.”

 

 

Chapter End Notes: All Klingon translations from the KLI, Vulcan from the VLD.

_tal-kam_ : (Vulcan) a beloved person

 _toy'wI''a' yuQmey_ : planet of slaves

 _tlhInganpu'_ : Klingons

 _lalDanyaS_ : priest

 _tera' Ha'DIbaH_ : Earth dogs

 _HoD! So'wI'!_ : Captain! Cloaking device!

 _'oH ngu'_ : Identify it.

 _orion, HoD_ : Orion, Captain.

 

 


	12. The Good Of The Many

Chapter Twelve: The Good Of The Many

 

 

     Jim was perched on the edge of the pilot’s seat in the _Baliunas_ , one eye on the sensor readouts, trying to ignore the buzz of fatigue and stress that hovered at the edges of his vision. His stomach was beginning to cramp from the exertion in the cave, and he couldn’t get the metallic taste of blood out of his mouth. Nyota was next to him, her injured leg stretched out as far as it could go in the cramped space. She had programmed a subspace fast-pulse transmission protocol, secured and under heavy encryption, the message to be sent directly to Coventry and to Sulu on the _Enterprise_. Spock sat behind them, speaking into the tricorder. He had been recording for almost ten minutes, his words a rapid-fire procession of names, account numbers, physical descriptions, operations both ongoing and completed. Now, he was listing Klingon abuses past and present, as gleaned from his telepathic contact with the Shrivth, evidence that would hopefully be enough to justify another Starfleet incursion.

     The Vulcan’s shoulders were slumped, his hands still shaking, but his voice was firm, and it was all the captain could do to keep part of his attention on the sensors. Jim had picked up the basics from Spock’s thoughts, before the bond had been silenced; had learned of the involvement of not only Narayan, but of three Federation Council representatives, a high-level Starfleet intelligence officer, and members of the Federation president’s office, all of whom, he could presume, were now actively involved in keeping Starfleet away from Prime.

     Section Thirty-one had fallen in a spectacular manner with Admiral Marcus, but preexisting corruption had apparently simply shifted. With Starfleet’s resources still spread thin after Nero, less official attention had been paid to the fate and protection of deemed “no-contact” worlds, or to humanitarian and peacekeeping causes in general. Instead, an acquisitive culture had flourished, seeking valuable mineral deposits and lucrative development contracts. The conspiracy had grown out of that, from the relentless greed of certain well-placed members, who had grown restless watching the wealth of virgin worlds go unclaimed. Illegal, but profitable experimentation and the involvement of the slave traders had followed, and the entire scheme lay festering at the center of Federation interests, subtly influencing politics, and making corrupt beings extravagantly rich.

     Nyota was gripping the edge of her panel with an almost desperate strength as Spock finished. He swallowed, holding the tricorder out to her, and she took it, sharing a glance with Jim. “I’ll get this keyed in and ready to transmit on your command.”

     He nodded, looking again at his board. “Sensors still reading clear in the immediate vicinity. No sign of the Orion craft, or of the Klingons. Yet.” He turned back at Spock, his voice quiet. “How are you doing?”

     Jim had half-carried, half-dragged Fergus’ unconscious form back to the shuttle, restraining him in a rear seat. Spock and Nyota had followed, each leaning heavily on the other. The drug had indeed affected the Vulcan profoundly. Aside from the obvious physical effects, Spock’s natural aversion to casual touch was startlingly gone with the temporary cessation of his telepathic abilities, and he seemed to reach out of his own accord, perhaps seeking in touch the kind of ambient awareness that had come with his normal psi-perception. Now, the Vulcan stretched out a hand tentatively, and Jim turned more fully to clasp it gently between his own, feeling the subtle pulse of the awakening bond throb more powerfully between them.

     “I believe I require another dose of kisandromine, Jim.”

     Jim frowned. “You don’t look so good.” It was only partly true. Jim’s eyes poured over the Vulcan, over dark hair and soulful eyes, seeing behind the present pallor and bruising and stress and into the longed-for features of the one he loved.

     Warm fingers flexed. “If the current dose expires while we are attempting to escape this planet, your abilities as a command pilot will be severely compromised.” Spock’s eyes searched Jim’s again, as if seeking something that he couldn’t quite catch, and he released the captain’s hands to reach for the medkit.

     Jim’s frown deepened as he heard the hiss of the hypospray, and felt the growing warmth at the back of his mind go immediately and thoroughly cold. He saw Spock flinch, and heard him make a small noise, eyes falling closed and a shudder running through his body. The Vulcan did not slip into unconsciousness this time, but his eyes betrayed his distress as he opened them again.

     Jim suddenly thought disconcertingly of Darumar, when the feeling of Spock’s mind had suddenly and horribly gone cold and dark, and flinched, turning to look at Nyota, seeing her watching him already, her fingers poised over her panels. “I’m ready here, Jim.”

     “Alright.” Jim determinedly turned to his own boards, working as he spoke. “I’m going to fire up the engines and program our initial trajectory; I think the best way out is the way we came: hard and fast, with a sharp bank along a magnetic isopotential as we approach the sun. Coming from this direction, I’m pretty sure they’re going to see us, but hopefully we’ll be able to make the jump to warp space and get back into Federation territory before they can pull the trigger. Everyone strapped in?”

     The engines began their characteristic low thrum and a tiny vibration shook the cabin. Jim glanced back at Spock, who managed a small nod, and then at Nyota. “Okay, Ny. Transmit.”

     She pressed her lips together and punched in a quick sequence. Jim waited for her nod before engaging engines, and the vibration around them increased as the craft made rapidly for the sky.

 

 

 

     The appearance of the Orion vessel had initiated a series of surface scans and heightened readiness, and Kahlar was prepared this time when the amber lights on his board flashed, and he heard a barked exclamation from the soldier manning the communications network, informing the captain that an unauthorized transmission had been detected.

     “ _mungDaj vItu'_!”

     Kahlar manipulated his control panel, narrowing in on a region of the planet near the largest populated center. His eyes widened as he detected the characteristic engine signature of a small craft on a climbing trajectory, moving at high impulse. Not pirates, this. _Starfleet_!

     “ _'ejyo', HoD!”_

     The words had barely left Kahlar’s mouth when the communications officer spoke up again. Another transmission, this time originating directly from the largest building in the populated center: a blanket subspace transmission across a range of frequencies, sent from what appeared to be a personal transmitter.

     The captain immediately ordered an intercept course of the Starfleet craft, and a notification to the main security force on the surface. Whoever sent the second transmission would be apprehended in seconds.

     “ _DoS poH_?”

     The weapons officer barked a reply to the captain’s question as the bird of prey broke orbit and came about. The viewscreen focused on the small fleeing craft, now obviously a marked Starfleet shuttle. Kahlar clenched his teeth in anticipation as the weapons lock glowed white around the craft.

     “ _DoS QuQ neH_. _baH!”_

 

 

 

     Hikaru had barely finished listening to the encoded message when he slammed the comm button next to his desk screen. “Acting Captain to bridge.”

     “Bridge, Kearns here, sir.”

     “Kearns, get me Admiral Coventry at Command. Top priority, and patch it through immediately. Page Doctor McCoy to my quarters.”

     “Yes, sir!”

     Hikaru stood and started to pace, back and forth. Spock was alive; the computer had confirmed his voiceprint, and the information he had conveyed was astounding. Unfortunately, it was the first part of the message that kept running through the acting captain’s mind: _This is Commander Spock from the surface of Sigma Corolan Prime. I am unlikely to avoid enemy detection immediately following transmission of this message, however, this information is critical to Federation security and to the future of this planet._

     Even now, Jim and the others could be in Klingon hands. Or captured by that Orion vessel. Hikaru set his jaw, looking up as McCoy barreled into his quarters.

     “What happened? Did you hear from them? From Coventry?”

     “Spock’s sent a message from Prime detailing the conspiracy. It’s big, Leonard, and it goes all the way to the top. I imagine he sent it along to Coventry already, but I’ve got a call in. I don’t think Spock expected to be able to escape once that transmission was sent.”

     “Shit.”

     Hikaru bit his lip and continued to pace. “I can’t just take the ship in there against orders. At the least, it’ll start a war. If we could only... .”

     The comm sounded shrilly, interrupting him. “Kearns to Captain. I’ve got Admiral Coventry on channel A, sir.”

     “Thank you, Ensign.” Hikaru and McCoy exchanged a glance, and the acting captain moved back over to the desk screen, standing in front of it. McCoy slid to the side, away from the pickup, and Hikaru hit the button, watching Coventry appear.

     Before Hikaru could speak, the admiral held up a hand, her face appearing more drawn than usual, and her eyes more intense. “Mr. Sulu, I just received Commander Spock’s message, and I know what you’re going to ask.” She winced slightly. “I’m sorry, but the answer is negative. I can’t let you go in there.”

     “Ma’am, if the Klingons get them, they’ll be tortured and questioned, and ultimately killed. There are three decorated Starfleet officers out there, two of them of command rank and with access to top-level security codes.”

     “Codes that have already been changed, Mr. Sulu. Lest you forget, both men have been presumed, or declared dead. And Kirk and Uhura are there against orders.”

     McCoy abruptly crossed over next to Sulu. “Admiral, respectfully, that really doesn’t matter now! The information Spock sent about the state of Klingon occupation on that planet... .”

     “Is actionable, Doctor!” Coventry didn’t look surprised to see him there, and her voice now held frustration. “I agree with you that it’s actionable. My people are working on that intel right now, as we speak. But, as Mr. Spock was obviously aware, the information itself is more important than three lives. We have to take this by the book, gentlemen. We have to get approval to move.”

     “Let me go in there, Admiral. Please.”

     Coventry shook her head, and McCoy could see the tense set of her shoulders even through the screen. “I’m sorry, Mr. Sulu. It’s not just me who needs to be convinced. I hate to say it, but we may need more than this. You will stand by for further orders. Coventry out.”

     Hikaru waited until the screen went dark to let loose with a string of profanity. McCoy watched him, arms crossed over his chest, worrying his lower lip with his teeth. He jumped when the comm suddenly sounded again. “Bridge to Acting Captain!”

     “Go ahead, Kearns.” Hikaru’s voice was tight.

     “Sir, I’m picking up a blanket signal from Corolan Prime across a range of subspace bands! It’s a short message, and repeated three times before it was abruptly cut off.”

     Hikaru and McCoy exchanged a startled glance, and the acting captain leaned forward. “Patch it through, Ensign.”

     The viewscreen wavered and finally solidified on an image of an older Shrivth woman with unusual blue eyes. She was standing in a small, dingy room with three men at her back, each clutching a primitive weapon. She spoke rapidly, in halting Standard. “This is Kerla Sasia Deruk. I am of the world you call Prime. I call for help from the Federation. I ask for help for my people. We are fight, but many killed. Help us. Please.” There was a shout from one of the men behind her, and she whirled as the transmission went dark.

     Hikaru flipped the comm. “Kearns! Get me Coventry again. Attach that message!”

 

 

 

     “Bird of prey at one-three-zero, Jim! They’re targeting our engines!”

     “Shit!” Jim glanced at the panels. “We’re not far enough out of the gravity well to engage warp drive. Hang on!” He banked the _Baliunas_ into a steeper climb, hearing the impulse engines scream. “Nyota, cut in thrusters on my command!”

     “Aye.” She gasped. “They’re firing!”

     “Go on thrusters now! Full power!”

     The shuttle burst forward sharply, breaking out of the high atmosphere as stars coalesced outside the viewscreen. The craft was suddenly buffeted by the passage of a powerful energy bolt from the starboard aft, just skimming the lower part of the shuttle.

     “Ready for warp speed!” Jim grasped the lever and started to move it forward when an explosion sounded amidships.

     “We’re hit, Jim! Direct to the starboard nacelle. It’s out of alignment!”

     “Fuck.” Jim pulled back, turning the craft hard about and making for the atmosphere, crossing the terminator into night. “Maybe we can lose them along the ground.”

     “Jim!” Nyota’s scream was lost in another explosion, and the craft lost gravity momentarily, skipping along the atmosphere before tumbling down, internal gyros spinning as they plummeted.

     “Impulse and warp engines completely out! We’ve got nothing left except the thrusters!”

     Jim’s hands flew as the craft spun around them. “Give me thruster control-I’m going to try to level her out.”

     Seconds passed, and finally Jim had recovered enough control to bring them into a stable position, still falling.

     “We’re at ten thousand. Eight thousand. Six thousand. That bird of prey is descending behind us! Four thousand meters now. Two thousand.” Nyota’s voice was breathless.

     “Cutting in full-power to thrusters, now!” Jim reached for a switch, hearing Fergus whimper from the back of the craft. The shuttle shuddered and slowed, but they were still dropping, and quickly.

     “We’re at one thousand meters! We’re coming in too fast!”

     Suddenly the entire craft shook, and the infrastructure shrieked, and Jim glanced at the readouts as the shuttle sharply broke its terrifying descent. “They’ve got us in a tractor beam!”

     The beam was on, full-force, judging by the shearing sounds of metal as the craft twisted, and their descent slowed until finally they came to a jarring halt.

     “We’re three meters from surface!” Nyota spoke in a ragged gasp, and they could see the bright reflection of waves in the moonlight through the viewscreen, where they hung, suspended, mostly bow down, the crackle of energy and creak of plastisteel surrounding them.

     Jim tried to catch his breath from where he was compressed against his restraints, feeling stickiness drip down his chin. A wave of dizziness crashed over him as he tried to turn his head, and he grimaced, peering at what was left of their main panel readouts. “They’re not pulling us in yet. Must be waiting to stabilize.” He paused, and spat blood. “Once they get us up there, though, we’re dead. Or we’ll want to be. Fuck.”

     He heard Spock release his restraints from behind him, and the low murmur of the Vulcan’s voice as he carefully maneuvered his body forward. “I believe I have a solution. Nyota, allow me... .”

     She glanced over at Jim, and then awkwardly shifted positions with the Vulcan, grunting as she was forced to put weight on her injured leg as she climbed into one of the rear seats and re-fastened her straps.

     Jim stared at his bondmate’s profile as Spock focused on the boards in front of him. “What are you doing?”

     Spock’s voice was weak, and his own breathing was uneven as his hands moved: slowly, and then faster as the sound of the tractor beam surrounding them increased to a driving harmonic. “I am attempting to...re-configure remaining shield and thruster energies into a feedback pulse that will...dynamically react with the tractor beam power source.”

     “Dynamically react?” Jim raised his eyebrows and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His mind felt sluggish, despite the adrenaline still pumping wildly through his system.

     Spock finished keying in a sequence and took a breath. “A full-power tractor beam operating in the lower atmosphere is...dominantly polarized. Initiation of a counter-signature with appropriate polarization and energy will... .”

     “Shit!” Jim braced against the panels with both hands. “Nyota, hang on!”

     He heard her cry out as the craft shook and abruptly dropped, plummeting towards the dark water beneath. From above them, dimly, they heard the sound of a terrific explosion, and, as the shuttle hit the water, Jim could see bits of fiery wreckage landing all around before a huge piece of the bird of prey landed into the water beside them, creating a wave and flipping the still-floating shuttle end-over-end, settling finally on its belly and slowly beginning to sink, water rushing in from cracks near the rear of the craft. A strangled yell was heard from Fergus, still restrained in the back.

     Jim fumbled with his belts, hearing Nyota’s low moan from behind him. Spock had released his own harness and reached for Jim, his dark eyes huge in the flickering emergency lighting. The bond was still silent in Jim’s head, and he saw Spock flinch again as he gripped Jim’s arms, steadying him as he unfastened the clasps holding the captain in his seat. Finally freed, Jim allowed Spock to pull him up and braced himself against the distorted bulkhead. Nyota had released herself and stood, holding her left arm protectively, her face twisted in pain. Jim reached for her, steadying her against his body and edged towards the side hatch as Spock moved towards the darkened aft, his steps unsteady as the shuttle rocked.

     Jim heard a panel open from the rear of the craft, and let go of Nyota momentarily as a large survival pack slid across the deck to his feet. Spock re-appeared out of the gloom from the back of the craft, practically dragging a wild-eyed Fergus.

     The shuttle doors opened as Jim hit the emergency release lever, and dark, chilled water started to lap inside. The captain pushed the survival pack outside, pulling the ripcord, and the pack split open and quickly expanded into a large raft. At the sight of the darkness outside, lit only by burning pieces of wreckage from the Klingon warbird, Fergus started to whimper and struggle, and, with his strength diminished by the effects of the drug, it was all Spock could do to push the terrified human through the hatch and into the raft. Jim helped Nyota in next, and then Spock. And as the rush of water into the shuttle became a low roar, he reached for Spock’s hand, the weakness in his body causing him to slip sideways and drag his legs through the water before his bondmate pulled him onboard. He glanced around, dimly noting Fergus pressed as far back against the side of the raft as he could get, and Nyota, now clutching a phaser in her right hand. Spock shifted, adjusting the small motor and popup nav screen, now showing a shoreline three kilometers away. As the hum of the engine started, Jim took one last look at the slowly fading fires on the surface of the water and the bow of the _Baliunas_ as she disappeared beneath the waves.

 

 

 

     Jalal Narayan raised his chin confidently as he walked towards the raised dais in the cavernous Federation Council main chamber. As his office was charged with the disposition of the planet Sigma Corolan Prime, he was considered the authority on the matter, and his testimony had been closely followed over the past days’ debate. Of course, the added intrigue of the questionable involvement of Starfleet’s flagship and of her late captain had added fuel to the fire, and Narayan had been bombarded by requests for personal meetings with the ambassadors. As he took his place at the dais and waited for his official invitation to speak from the Council president himself, he caught sight of Ambassador Sarek of New Vulcan, sitting forbiddingly in the first row of spectators. Narayan managed to keep a pleasant smile on his face, but he inwardly was raging. Fergus had yet to get back to him confirming Spock’s death. The last the commissioner had heard, the scientist was on his way to meet secretly with a representative of the Orion syndicate, to reassure them that the threat of exposure was minimal. A muscle twitched beneath Narayan’s smile as he considered his ally. Fergus’ former association with Section Thirty-one had been invaluable, but his choice of accomplices was questionable. Pederson, particularly, had always annoyed Narayan, even from the beginning. Perhaps Fergus’ usefulness too had run out.

     Narayan shifted, seeing Sarek’s dark eyes fasten on him as the Council president began the lengthy formal introduction. Due to his position, the Vulcan would have been quickly informed of his son’s disappearance and presumed death on Prime, and Kirk’s unfortunate demise shortly thereafter. Narayan wondered absently if the ambassador had known of the supposed bond between the command team. Even now, the commissioner held his own doubts about its existence. It was not mentioned in either of their medical records, and Kirk was known as an intuitive and imaginative bluffer. In any case, assuming both officers were dead, it was a nonissue.

     The president concluded his introduction and the light on Narayan’s dais turned green as his microphone was activated. The commissioner took a breath and had opened his mouth to speak when the rear doors to the great hall suddenly burst open and a phalanx of Starfleet security officers poured in, followed by Admiral Kaliah Coventry, her dark eyes sharp and focused directly on Narayan. The president stood, as did several members of the Council, but Sarek remained seated, his eyes remaining on the commissioner, his face impassive, even as several guards surrounded the dais.

     “You’re under arrest, Commissioner, for treason, conspiracy, attempted murder, and sentient species trafficking. Please come with us. Any statement will be recorded and may be used against you. Representation will be provided.”

     Narayan began to object, and then he saw other officers arresting three ambassadors, all members of the hidden conspiracy, and Coventry moved directly to the front to speak in low tones to the president, whose face registered shock, and then anger.

     The hall had erupted in noise and confusion, and Narayan vaguely felt restraints clasp onto his wrists as he was escorted bodily towards the rear doors. He turned his head at the last moment to see Sarek, now standing, staring after him. And Narayan saw the faintest glimmer of satisfaction cross the Vulcan’s eyes before the doors to the main chamber slid smoothly shut.

 

 

 

     They had made it to the shoreline, and hidden the raft, making a tortuous hike across rocky and vegetated terrain inland to a relatively flat area surrounded by thick forest. Their progress, hindered by injury and fatigue, had taken hours, and, as dawn had broken, Jim had ordered a halt, and they had made a haphazard encampment beneath the cover of trees. They were in rough shape, to say the least, and Jim could feel the soft buzz of psionic awareness beginning to flicker again along the bond. The open-water ditch gear had its own emergency medkit, but no kisandromine, and Jim knew that the bond would rapidly become debilitating. Nyota had broken her arm as the shuttle had fallen, and her knee was badly strained and hugely swollen. She could hold a phaser, though, and kept it trained on Fergus, who sat against a tree, glowering at them. Spock was too quiet and still too pale, his body visibly weak and uncoordinated. His preternatural ability to focus in a crisis had served them well in the cave and on the shuttle, but it had taken its toll, and he was now sitting next to Jim, his hands uncharacteristically fumbling with the lone tricorder.

     Jim sat against a large rock, his legs sprawled out in front of him. He could feel a dangerous burning sensation in his belly and chest, and the persistent taste of blood in his mouth had become even stronger. He was overcome by intermittent waves of dizziness, and was starting to have trouble breathing. He wasn’t sure why the Klingons hadn’t sent another craft to investigate, and his mind was becoming increasingly confused as the sun rose higher in the sky and the heat of the lowlands reached into the shade. He jerked awake, barely registering that his eyes had closed, as his bondmate leaned over and, cupping a warm hand behind Jim’s head, pressed a small water container against the human’s chapped lips.

     “Drink, Jim.”

     The captain blinked and swallowed the liquid, feeling the buzz in his mind grow ever stronger and leaning instinctively into the Vulcan’s touch. As Spock lowered the bottle, Jim coughed slightly, his voice rough and dry. “Any...any luck figuring out what’s going on? Why they haven’t come back yet?”

     “The tricorder is not registering any patrols within this area. Perhaps, a scan of the comm bands would provide more information. If... .” The Vulcan’s voice trailed off and he flinched as a particularly strong pulse ricocheted along the awakening bond.

     Nyota had been watching them. “Spock, take the phaser. I’ll give it a try.”

     Jim watched as Spock shifted over next to Nyota, taking the weapon and handing her the communicator. Across the small clearing, Fergus, who had largely been quiet, snorted. “You all think you’re so smart. You’re not going to make it out of here.”

     “Then maybe I should just shoot you now.” Jim’s fatigue made his tone flat, and he slowly sat up fully, rolling his shoulders and neck, trying to dispel some of the lingering cramping and discomfort.

     The scientist’s tone was dismissive. “You would have done it already.” Fergus peered pointedly at Spock, and the phaser, aimed but shaking in the Vulcan’s hands. “My report from Pederson was a little sketchy, given his state at the time. You’re the only functional telepath we’ve tested the device on, and obviously it did something. Care to give me your personal opinion?”

     Spock remained silent, and Fergus chuckled. “Let me guess. From Pederson’s ravings, I could figure out that it seemed to prevent you from shielding, and enhanced your mental abilities. But, it obviously didn’t do what it was supposed to with regard to control; it didn’t protect the operators, and you weren’t amenable to suggestion.” He frowned. “Pity. I bet we’ll still find buyers for it, though. Especially if it was powerful enough to break a Vulcan.”

     “Shut up!” Jim glared, his head beginning to pound. The bond was widening and he could sense Spock’s mind again, harshly: racing thoughts, deep-seated throbbing emotion, and the memory of pain and helplessness. Jim winced, bringing a hand involuntarily to his temple, making Nyota look up from her work. Spock’s brow was furrowed, and Jim could feel him try to raise his mental shields, feeling the stab of agony as if it were his own. Jim’s sudden cry mirrored his bondmate’s gasp, as the bond blew open and the human clutched at his head with both hands as his mind was again bombarded. Spock abruptly fired a stun beam directly at Fergus before turning the weapon around and firing into his own chest. The scientist had barely time for a startled look before collapsing sideways, unconscious, and Nyota let out a shout, dropping the communicator and pushing herself towards the Vulcan just in time to catch his head in her good hand before it hit the ground.

     Jim lowered his hands and looked up, his head suddenly and terrifyingly clear, to meet Nyota’s horrified gaze, the tears in his eyes matched by her own, and then he heard it: the low throb of an impulse engine sounded, high above the trees, rapidly approaching their position. The tricorder beeped and Jim grabbed for it, registering the readout before meeting Nyota’s eyes again.

     “Take care of him.” He dropped the tricorder and struggled to his knees, crawling over and taking the phaser from his bondmate’s loose grip, pressing two fingers to Spock’s hand in the Vulcan way. He ignored Nyota’s desperate calls, ignored the pain and fatigue, pushing himself doggedly to his feet and stumbling out into the nearby field where a Klingon hunter-seeker was looming on the horizon, on approach, having achieved a sensor lock on their life signs.

     He raised his phaser, aiming for the front weapons ports, seeing them begin to glow, knowing that even this infinitesimal chance was something; that he would not go quietly, or allow his friends to be taken without a fight. The warbird grew ever larger, and Jim’s finger tightened on the trigger, a determined grimace on his face, and then, suddenly, the craft pulled up and veered abruptly away, making for high atmosphere.

     Confused, Jim stared for an instant before becoming aware of other pulses, screaming in from the west, and turned to see three Starfleet interceptors blaze across the sky, in hot pursuit. And, as he followed them with his eyes, he was aware of the soft tingle of dematerialization, and a cry ripped from his throat as his vision blurred into the golden light of transport.

 

 

Chapter End Notes: All Klingon translations from the KLI.

_mungDaj vItu'_!: Find the origin!

 _'ejyo', HoD!_ : Starfleet, Captain!

 _DoS poH?_ : Time to target?

 _DoS QuQ neH_. _baH!_ : Target only the engine. Fire!

 

 


	13. Anything

Chapter Thirteen: Anything

 

 

     The golden shimmer of the transporter beam cleared from Jim’s eyes, and he registered briefly that he was home before abruptly collapsing to sit down on the familiar pad, turning his head to take in Nyota, Spock and Fergus next to him. Jim dropped the phaser and crawled towards his bondmate’s side, grasping his hand, dimly aware of a voice shouting a command, and several security officers and a nurse moving past him to surround Fergus’ unconscious form. Nyota had Spock’s head cradled on her lap, and reached out to touch Jim’s arm to get his attention as McCoy knelt down next to them, two nurses behind him.

     “Jim! Thank heaven.”

     “Spock took a stun bolt to the chest and other injuries. He can’t shield; they did something to his mind. Don’t let anyone touch him if they can help it. We gave him kisandromine and it seemed to help, for a while.” The captain’s muttered words were slightly slurred, spoken rapidly.

     “Jim!”

     “Nyota’s got a broken arm and wrenched her knee pretty badly. And probably other stuff she’s not telling me about.”

     “Jim.”

     The captain raised his eyes enough to focus on Fergus, now being carried out under guard. “That fucker is responsible for Spock being hurt in the first place.”

     “I know, Jim.”

     McCoy’s hazel eyes were still touched by disbelief, worry, and affection as he gently eased his friend onto his back on the pad, motioning for a hypo from one of the nurses. “Calm down, kid. Coventry got your message, and the one sent by the native woman. Kerla Sasia? The Klingons apparently weren’t ready for a fight with three heavy cruisers and our interceptors in addition to the full-blown revolt going on dirtside. They’ve cleared out like their tails were on fire, and we’ve got control of the system.”

     Jim kept Spock’s hand in a tight grip as he felt the Vulcan’s body gently laid down next to him, hearing the high-pitched beeping of the scanners and McCoy murmuring orders to his team. Nyota was lifted onto a stretcher and more orderlies, stretchers at the ready, moved in next to the command team.

     “Jim, you have to let go of him. Jim!”

     The captain, overcome by exhaustion, his body cramping and his head pounding, still refused to release his bondmate’s hand, and McCoy finally pressed a hypo against his friend’s neck, pushing him conclusively into the dark oblivion of sleep.

 

 

 

     It was the distinctive smell of sickbay that seeped into Jim’s consciousness first. And then the soft beep and murmur of medical monitors, and the feeling of the pillow beneath his head. The captain opened his eyes, slowly, and blinked, taking a deep breath, and then another. There was no pain in his midsection, and the taste of blood was gone from his mouth. He fumbled mentally for the bond, and winced slightly when he was met with silence. Tentatively, he raised one hand to his face and noticed the security cuff fastened around his wrist; around each of his wrists, and his ankles. He lifted his head slightly and saw a sheepish security officer standing in the corner of the small isolation room.

     “I paged Doctor McCoy that you were waking up, sir. It’s good to have you back. Alive, I mean. And on board.” Ensign Vickers flinched, his face flushing to match his red tunic.

     Jim allowed himself a small sigh and laid his head back down on the pillow, deciding he was lucky he wasn’t already in the brig. He rubbed his eyes, feeling tension begin in his shoulders. He wanted to know where Spock was, and Nyota, and exactly what had transpired before their rescue. He wanted to confront Fergus and talk to Coventry, and make sure Narayan hadn’t escaped. He wanted to go to the bridge, and see with his own eyes that his ship was safe and secure. And he pressed his lips together, knowing that there was a good chance he may never step foot on a starship’s bridge again.

     The door slid open and McCoy strode in, shooting Vickers a sharp glare before crossing immediately to Jim’s bedside. Jim looked up into his friend’s hazel eyes. “Bones... .”

     McCoy gave a terse nod, glancing up at the monitors quickly before fixing Jim with an intense look. “Okay, listen up, kid. You’re under arrest, obviously, as the presence of Vickers here proves.” He made a face at the hapless ensign, who shifted uncomfortably.

     “Nyota has been arrested, too, but she’s doing much better and is confined to quarters. The ship’s safe and we’re four hours from Earth orbit. The rest of the battle group is remaining in the Sigma Corolan system and medical and relief ships are on the way. You did a pretty stupid thing running off after being almost poisoned to death, but so far, no permanent damage has shown up. Although, you won’t be eating much beyond a liquid diet for the next few days.”

     He grunted, shaking his head. “And Fergus is in the brig. Won’t say much, yet, but I bet that’ll change when he hears that Coventry wants to hand him over to New Vulcan for trial.”

     Jim listened, the tension spreading across his body as he knew what Bones hadn’t yet said. The doctor exhaled strongly, glancing up at the panels, and then looked over at Vickers.

     “Ensign, give us a minute, will you?”

     Vickers swallowed. “Uh, I’m not supposed to... .”

     “Dammit, man! He’s not going anywhere. Now get the hell out of here, or we’ll discuss this again at your next physical!”

     “Yes, sir.” Vickers twisted his lips and hesitated, but finally turned and exited, the door sliding shut behind him.

     Bones straightened his shoulders and faced Jim again, his voice lower. “Spock’s conscious, Jim, and we’ve got him on kisandromine, as you may have guessed. Unfortunately, while this allows him to function around so many humans in close proximity, I have to increase the dosage each time and it’s having some pretty significant side effects.” McCoy made a face. “He’s nearly walking into walls. I didn’t want to push it, and left orders that he’s not allowed in here for the time being, considering your bond.”

     Jim nodded, his brow furrowing, and he pushed himself up to a sitting position, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed.

     “He can’t go into a trance on that stuff, so I fixed him up physically as best I could. As far as I can tell, no permanent harm done in that respect, but his mind’s another story. Now, listen, Jim, the _Constellation_ had a Vulcan healer on board, something to do with research outreach. Anyway, when they joined the battle group and after Spock was transported up, the healer volunteered to catch a ride with us to Earth and have a look at Spock, and you, on the way.”

     McCoy took a deep breath, rubbing a hand across his forehead. “Spock’s already seen the healer, and Savtor told me there isn’t much he can do, here, especially with the medication. But he’d still like to meet with you. Maybe explain things a little better.” McCoy watched Jim carefully. “He’d like to see you now.”

     Jim tried and failed to keep apprehension from his eyes and expression. “Where’s Spock now?”

     “He’s in his quarters. I think he’s talking to Coventry on a secure link.”

     There was a long silence as Jim felt the tension spread even further across his body, and he clenched his hands into fists. “Okay, Bones. I’ll see the healer.”

     McCoy nodded gently, gripping Jim’s shoulder briefly before turning away. “Sure, Jim.”

     Jim stared after him, and McCoy suddenly stopped a few paces from the door. His shoulders rose and fell, and he turned back, deep emotion filling his eyes. “I’m sorry, kid. I’m sorry for doubting you, before, and for that call to Coventry. I’m sorry you’re in this mess.”

     The captain shook his head. “You could have sung my praises and it wouldn’t have changed anything, Bones.” He huffed. “Except made you look like a nutjob, too.”

     The doctor lowered his eyes. “It would have given you emotional support, at least. I was a shit friend.”

     “But you were a good CMO. I know it sounded crazy, Bones. Hell, I did it, and I have no idea how to explain myself in any rational manner.”

     McCoy met his eyes again. “The ends justify the means?”

     Jim exhaled, and tilted his head, his eyes sad. “They do indeed.” He managed a half-smile. “No regrets. You brought me back from the dead; I figure you’re entitled to some leeway.”

     Bones smiled back, fleetingly, before his expression settled into more somber lines. “I’ll let Savtor know you’re ready.”

 

 

 

     Jim had changed into a set of uniform blacks and was pacing the small room when the door slid open again, admitting a tall figure in a severe, dark suit. Savtor was alone, McCoy having threatened Vickers into holding his station outside the room, and his impassivity was practically a force in and of itself. The Vulcan had light brown hair, cut into the traditional style, and piercing dark brown eyes. Jim drew himself up as the healer stepped in and the door shut, and they each considered the other across the biobed.

     “Captain Kirk. I am Savtor. I come to serve.” The Vulcan offered the _ta’al_ , lifting his chin to peer at Jim.

     The captain’s eyes narrowed only slightly as he reciprocated the gesture. “ _Dif-tor heh smusma_ , Savtor.” His accent was nearly perfect, and he lowered his hand as Savtor’s eyebrow twitched.

     The healer tilted his head, his eyes fastening on the cuffs still visible on Jim’s wrists before rising to meet the captain’s gaze again. “I shall be direct. Commander Spock’s mind has been subjected to significant injuries, the most obvious consequence of which is his inability to shield, but also evidenced by heightened sensitivity and amplified projection of psionic energies. To continue on the kisandromine will rapidly become debilitating, and it is therefore unlikely that he will be able to perform in his current position on the _Enterprise_ , or in any position amidst unshielded minds, until progress has been made.”

     Savtor clasped his hands behind his back. “It is my recommendation that Spock return immediately to New Vulcan, where he can proceed with healing in a properly controlled environment.”

     Jim’s jaw tensed as his heart dropped and the healer raised an eyebrow, continuing smoothly, “I was informed that you share a _t’hy’la_ bond, but I was unable to confirm it, given Spock’s present condition. I find this...improbable, but will allow that Spock is correct. Such a bond cannot be broken; however, a fully developed mating bond may better allow Spock to stabilize his own mind and heal himself.”

     Jim furrowed his brow. “What's the difference between our bond and a full mating bond? What would we need to do to... ?”

     Both of Savtor’s eyebrows reached the fringe of his bangs, and his voice held a sharp note. “Perhaps I should clarify that such contact with a human mind would not allow for stabilization. And given your current legal circumstance and doubtful future, the necessary physical contact would not be guaranteed.”

     Jim colored and his eyes narrowed, but Savtor continued, “It is my recommendation that Spock establish a link with a functional telepath instead. Such a bond would coexist with the connection already present.”

     The captain swallowed and shook his head, his mouth suddenly dry and a dim sense of panic welling in his chest. “I need to talk to Spock.”

     Savtor stared at him, his eyes impenetrable. “It is in your bondmate’s best interests for you to encourage such a match, Captain. If the current situation persists, he may fall inevitably into madness.”

     The healer’s words were like a bucket of ice water down Jim’s spine, and for an instant he was back on Darumar, staring at the limp and bloodied body of his dearest friend. A friend who had returned to him, almost miraculously, and who had forgiven him, even loved him. A friend to whom he had promised anything and everything. And now he knew what _anything_ meant. To choose to give up his career seemed almost simple compared to this: a choice to send Spock away, to another. To give up that cherished undivided connection and allow a stranger to touch him, to share his mind, to hold an essential piece of him forever separate. A choice to allow his friend to live and to heal, and to be well. _Anything_.

     He opened his mouth and promptly choked on the words, gripping his hands into fists at his sides, and was about to try again when there was a barely audible disturbance outside. The door abruptly slid open unannounced to admit a noticeably weakened and drawn first officer, his face strikingly pale against his uniform blacks. Emotion screamed across his normally impassive visage, and his eyes were wide and anguished. Jim caught a glimpse of Ensign Vickers standing outside, his mouth open, before the door hissed shut again.

     Spock’s brown eyes met Jim’s, and the captain was suddenly aware of the dimmest pulse along the bond struggling against the dulling action of the drug. And then the half-Vulcan looked at Savtor, who had turned to face him. “I had not been informed of the captain’s recovery. It is not your place to interfere. There will be no other bonding.”

     Savtor blinked at him. “That is not logical, Spock. _T’hy’la_ is historically not necessarily exclusive of a mating bond with another.”

     Spock’s stance faltered, and he reached to place a steadying hand on the nearest wall, but his voice remained firm, with just a touch of dryness. “I do not wish to be joined with another.”

     Savtor inclined his head. “I am aware that you were denied a bonding link as a child. However, the possibility of extinction allows for certain leniencies. A Vulcan female would now accept your disadvantage, especially considering the genetic dominance of your Vulcan blood.”

     “Enough!”

     Spock abruptly pushed himself away from the wall, and Jim felt emotion stream into the undeniable connection that had re-emerged between their two minds, widening and strengthening even as they spoke. He took a step forward, and then another, a deep pang in his chest surfacing, and even he could hear the hesitation and denial in his own voice. “Spock, if this is what it takes... .”

     “Leave us. Now.” Spock had not looked at Jim again, his words directed at Savtor, his very human eyes now radiating rage. The bond was hot with it, and, from the way the healer flinched, it was evident that the kisandromine was failing. Rapidly.

     The healer’s tone was clipped. “I will summon McCoy.”

     Savtor moved towards the door and Spock stepped aside to let him pass. The door slid open and then closed, and then Spock murmured a rapid command. “Computer, implement emergency lockdown protocol alpha-seven-seven-five. Authorization command one-alpha-nine-six. Execute.”

     The door beeped and Jim heard the computer’s gentle tones. “Authorization accepted. Voiceprint approved.”

     Jim stared at his bondmate, whose expression and eyes had drained of rage and defiance, and now held determination, and fatigue.

     “What are you doing?”

     Spock carefully reached out and gripped the edge of the biobed, steadying himself again before settling cross-legged on the floor. Jim dropped too, and crawled over to sit in front of him, mirroring their position from Spock’s quarters seemingly so long ago. And he remembered his own words: _I won’t turn away again. I promise._ Swallowing hard, and ignoring the muted commotion on the other side of the door, he shifted even closer and reached out, taking both of Spock’s shaking hands in his own. “What are _we_ doing?”

     Spock’s eyes matched the warmth and intensity now radiating along the flaring link between them. “I will not bond with another, Jim.”

     Despite the impending tumultuous power of their connection, despite the memory of pain, of the loss of control, of fear, Jim tightened his hands on his bondmate’s, and nodded decisively. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

 

 

 

     McCoy stood in front of the locked door of the isolation room, his arms crossed, and a scowl on his face. Behind him and down the hall, he could hear Ensign Vickers being chewed out by Lieutenant Commander Walker, the security chief, called down the moment the hacked command authorization had gone through to seal the door. Savtor was standing to McCoy’s right, hands clasped behind his back, the faintest touch of confusion in his eyes.

     “This is highly illogical. Perhaps the kisandromine has had more of an effect than initially estimated. Perhaps the madness was closer than I predicted. I could sense an unparalleled degree of emotion in Commander Spock, even more than would be expected due to his hybrid ancestry. Perhaps... .”

     McCoy sighed loudly and looked at the ceiling. “ _Perhaps_ this is just a normal reaction from a recently traumatized, temporarily psi-blind telepath who has just been directed to abandon his bondmate and move to a planet where he is considered a throwaway.”

     “Doctor, I hardly think that... .”

     McCoy turned his head, fixing Savtor with a glare. “His _chosen_ bondmate, I may add, who willingly gave up both career and freedom to save him.”

     Savtor raised his chin, but his expression was impassive. “A uniquely human gesture.”

     The doctor shook his head, suddenly tired. “Whatever. Look, it’s obvious they don’t want your help.” He shrugged. “Thanks, but I’ll take it from here.” His eyes were still hard, and he thought that he should have expected something like this, after Savtor had bluntly listed his unilateral recommendations for Spock’s recovery. McCoy knew, however, that he couldn’t have predicted that Spock would be the one to do something stupid.

     Savtor blinked, once, and then released his hands to fall at his sides. “I will remain here at your disposal, Doctor. There is a eighty-nine point six percent probability that this action,” he tilted his head at the door, “will result in permanent psionic injury or death for both of them.”

     McCoy simply closed his eyes, bowing his head, scowl fading as worry enveloped his mind.

 

 

 

     Jim’s eyes were closed, and his hands loosely clasped his bondmate’s. They were seated close enough that their knees brushed, so that they could almost feel the other’s breath. Spock was slowly following the rules of meditation, painstakingly and deliberately working through each level, each requisite exercise, each breathing pattern. His hands had stopped shaking, and the tension was gone from his face.

     The bond was open and broadening and the shocking mental power was still there, still surrounding Jim’s mind, still infusing it. But instead of a relentless, frightening torrent of thought and emotion driven by a desperate, confusing situation and complicated by physical weakness and injury, it was now a focused flow, suffused with love, and maintained on the barest edge of control by the knowledge that neither would accept any other choice.

     And as hard as it was for Spock to acknowledge the danger and yet maintain his focus, it was just as hard for Jim to allow it. To open himself willingly to the intensified power of his bondmate’s mind, and to let go, to lose himself, to float instead of fight, to drift instead of flail. There was guilt and responsibility and lingering emotional scars from Darumar that were burned into him, but mostly it was trust and love. Trust in one who had never let him down, or given up on him, in one who had offered his life for him, and for whom he himself had done the same. Love for one who completed him in every way, who fought for him as no one else had done, who believed in him when he himself had turned to despair.

     The flow became a flood, and it was as if every barrier was gone. Jim leaned his head back, suppressing every primal urge to protect himself, to close off. Instead, he offered everything: the doubts, the fears, the dark places; his struggles and passions, embarrassments and defeats, the glorious victories. He told the stories of his childhood, the small beauties he found, and the many layers of his self-doubt. His was a naturally introspective soul, and in offering thus he was amazed to find new contours, parallel lines that were new and uncharted, dimensions and depths seemingly now connected to his own experiences but also profoundly separate.

     It was with a small amount of surprise that he sensed the warmth of Vulcan fingers on his psi points, and knew that the new places were his bondmate’s and that the perception of connections and contours was due to a deep compatibility between them, made more obvious by the strength of the new bond they were weaving. Jim delighted in the recognition, and allowed the powerful mind of his bondmate to guide him in new discoveries: glimpses of a boyhood not his own, of a deep feeling of isolation. Of the jewel-like perception of emotion: precious and exotic, hidden and defiant. Jim saw the depths of a love that awed him, of a loyalty that he felt he hardly deserved. He saw darkness and light, pain and sacrifice, the deafening silence where there had once been billions of souls.

     He was still floating, still drifting, and yet their connection was no longer threatening. He could now sense control where before there was spiked chaos, could feel the beginnings of calm, and a sense of peripheral equilibrium. And he realized that the healer had been correct to suggest the stabilization of a full bond, forged through a deep meld. He knew that the mirrors and parallels within their memories and experiences were the planes of balance, a steadying force. And here was the last fear, the remaining trial. His mind fell into Spock’s, hinting, fortifying, trusting, and he sensed a mental barrier appear between them and the world outside. He mentally exclaimed and felt his bondmate’s amusement, imagining a series of barriers, protecting and shielding, glorying as he sensed them appear. They were still weak, still translucent, but the awful pain that had accompanied the effort before was gone, and the flood was controlled, directed once more.

     It was the looming fatigue that finally broke them apart, and the journey out was almost as intense as the journey in. Layers of memories, depths of experience, mental stratigraphy complex and far-reaching. But this time the tide was peaceful, the flood gentle, and from everywhere there was the glimmer of dimension and the spark of reflection. Everywhere they were together, yet separate. _Always and never touching, and touched._ The words whispered through Jim’s mind, and then he was apart, his body feeling awkward and overly complicated, his mind still reaching for Spock’s. And this time, instead of barely perceptible warmth, there was unbelievable presence, perception, and richness. Jim managed a smile as Spock’s hands fell from his face, seeing the exhaustion that cut through his own body mirrored in the half-closed eyes of his friend.

     They were both swaying, and Jim practically fell into his bondmate’s warm body, causing them both to collapse onto the floor, and he pressed his face into the smooth arch of Spock’s throat, hearing his bondmate’s voice as a distant thing as he closed his eyes.

 

 

 

     The soft beep of the door startled McCoy out of his thoughts, and he exchanged a look with Savtor before glancing at the chrono. One hundred eleven minutes. He squared his shoulders and glanced at Walker, who had tensed and grabbed for his weapon. “We’re going in first, on my medical authority. Stay back, and for heaven’s sake, put away that fucking phaser.”

     He didn’t wait for Walker’s sputtering reaction before reaching forward and pressing the door release, motioning Savtor in before following and palming the door shut immediately behind him.

     They were lying on the floor next to the biobed, Jim halfway on top of Spock’s body, his face pressed into the Vulcan’s neck, Spock’s arms around him. McCoy had his scanner out and working immediately, and he moved forward, past Savtor, to kneel next to them. Frowning at his readings, he was startled as he looked down and saw Spock’s dark eyes open.

     “Spock? Are you alright?”

     The half-Vulcan’s lips parted slightly, as if he was trying to answer, and then closed again. McCoy glanced over at the healer, who had knelt next to him and was leaning over the officers’ bodies.

     “Spock, may I have your thoughts?”

     Spock offered the barest of nods, his eyes falling shut, and Savtor reached forward, his fingers brushing Spock’s psi points and lingering for almost a minute before lifting away.

     Savtor leaned back, his expression thoughtful, and McCoy made an impatient noise. “Well?”

     “They now share a fully matured mating bond, Doctor, fulfilled through a deep meld. Spock’s mind was stabilized enough through the connection to allow him to begin to shield, and to temper the amplification of his psionic energy through the bond. When he regains consciousness, I would recommend isolation, except for his bondmate, until his strength returns. His inherent abilities are now even more formidable, and it will be taxing to maintain the shielding, initially, until he becomes accustomed to it. I could sense through their bond that Kirk’s mind is undamaged and he is no longer in danger.”

     McCoy remained silent, sensing more, and Savtor tilted his head. “They are true _t’hy’la_ ; their compatibility is unprecedented and would have proven to be incontestable. It was a grave error to encourage another bond.” The Vulcan healer slowly regained his feet, and McCoy looked up at him.

     “I admit to prejudice, and to assumption.” Savtor closed his eyes, briefly.

     McCoy settled back on his heels. “Don’t take it so hard; it’s not the first time these two have thrown convention for a loop.”

     Savtor raised an eyebrow and McCoy shook his head. “Never mind. What do we do now?”

     “They must be kept together. Proximity is essential when a mental connection of this depth is initiated, and physical intimacy is a natural and beneficial consequence that will stabilize the bond even further.”

     McCoy nodded. “I’ll get them situated here, then. It’ll make the security situation easier.” He made a sarcastic sniff. “I’ll inform Coventry that Jim’s court martial will just have to wait.”

     Savtor watched him as the doctor reached out to touch Jim gently on the shoulder, and after a moment, McCoy looked up. “Thanks, Savtor. For staying.”

     The Vulcan healer inclined his head. “My duty, Doctor. And my honor.”

 

 

 

Chapter End Notes: Vulcan translations from the VLD.

_Dif-tor heh smusma_ : Live long and prosper.

 

 


	14. Everything

Chapter Fourteen: Everything

 

 

     Jim was relaxed even before he opened his eyes. He could sense the familiar heat and hardness of the body he held against him, could breathe in the scent of his bondmate’s silky hair, could feel the warmth of fingers entwined with his own. And then there was the sensation of Spock’s mind: open and clear across the bond, glimmering with light and life and depth even in sleep. He could feel how it was different, now. The bond was stronger and deeper, more intense. But beyond that, the sense of Spock’s mind was changed as well. The almost frightening power was still there below the surface, and an impression of hypersensitivity, like lights that were too bright, or music just a little too loud. An effect of the machine, surely, and Jim’s arms tightened as he recalled Spock’s pain, not only from the torture, and the subsequent harsh psionic exposure, but also from the effects of the kisandromine. He remembered Savtor’s pronouncement and the desperate, almost human action that followed, and, almost unconsciously, he pressed himself closer against Spock’s back and whispered into his hair, “I love you.”

     His bondmate’s climb back to awareness was accompanied by a growing brilliance across the bond, and Jim could literally feel tenuous shields being tested as the vague hypersensitivity sharpened and the underlying power swelled. He opened his eyes, finally, as he felt Spock’s muscles tense and then almost forcibly relax, listening to his bondmate’s breathing fall into one of his meditative patterns. A wave of guilt washed over him and he began to pull back. “I’m sorry.”

     He felt his hands clasped even tighter and words coalesced in his mind.  _No, Jim. Please._

     For a few seconds he simply held still, wondering if he had imagined it, and then he sensed it again.  _Your mind centers me. You center me. Do not go._ And with the words was a wave of emotion, as deep as the bond itself, and Jim gasped as his mind was enfolded in a sense of love and devotion so strong that it threatened to overwhelm him.

     He almost forgot to breathe, and tightened his arms again. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m not going.” He brushed his nose through trimmed black hair, blinking rapidly, only now noticing that they were still in the isolation room in sickbay, still in their uniform blacks, but now on the biobed which had been extended to accommodate them both. The lights were dimmed, and the panel next to the door indicated it was locked. The background hum of the warp engines was gone, and a glance at the chrono indicated that they must have arrived at space dock. Which meant he probably had very little time left.

_No._

     Jim smiled slightly at the petulance within the mental denial, but he also sensed the fear behind it and his smile faded. “They’ll have to come and get me.”

     He had meant it with some degree of sarcasm, and wasn’t prepared for the powerful burst of _possessiveness, anger, love, need_ that poured through the bond. And he definitely wasn’t prepared as the barrage ignited his own mind, and desire flared intensely, his penis hardening, and his breath quickening harshly.

     “Spock... .” His words were abruptly lost in the press of a warm mouth against his own, as his bondmate had turned almost too fast to see, and hands which had seconds before been entwined with his were now gripping into his hair, and a hard body was pressing into him, a leg somehow inserted between his. Jim gasped again, and his mouth was taken in a searing, open-mouthed kiss, and he was kissing back, desperately, his hips helplessly grinding down, his cock straining inside his pants.

     The bond was pulsing with energy, and Jim’s mind felt like it was on fire, his body practically out of his control. The kiss was passionate, fierce, the focal point of the energy between them. Their tongues slid together, delving ever deeper as they pressed closer and closer, and Jim’s hands came up to slide under Spock’s tunic, feeling himself shudder as he touched smooth, heated muscle, felt it shift beneath his fingers, felt a strange electric sensation ricochet up his arms, bursting in his mind, and further enflaming his groin.

     He couldn’t breathe. He didn’t want to breathe. He had never been kissed like this before, had never felt so turned on, had never before wanted to sink into someone, mind, body and soul, and never come out. He broke away reluctantly, leaning his head back and gasping for air, and felt hands deftly strip his own tunic away, sensed the brush of air as Spock’s shirt disappeared, and cried out helplessly as their upper bodies came together, electricity shimmering across his skin, Spock’s lips moving along his neck.

     Vulcan words thrummed through his brain, and he was only able to discern ' _t’hy’la'_ before, somehow, warm hands moved into his pants, slipping down to hold his ass, and he bucked forward, seeking friction, contact, anything. He was panting as he felt himself turned onto his back, feeling Spock’s mouth moving over his collarbone and down over his chest. His own hands were clawing at anything he could reach, and he thought he should probably be taking off his pants when he felt the shock of air on his erection. And then he realized that Spock was naked, too, and looked down his body to see almost-black eyes staring at him before an unbelievable wet heat engulfed his penis and he yelled incoherently, feeling his orgasm already building. And building. And he writhed, his hands fisted in the thin sickbay sheets, his head thrown back, realizing that he was being held on the very edge of ecstasy.

     The force of Spock’s mind was now cradling him, gently restraining him, keeping him still as his pleasure built all around him and that mouth continued to excite him impossibly higher, and higher, and finally, when he had never felt, never conceived of anything like this before, the restraints disappeared and he fell into the white heat of pounding orgasm, throbbing his release into his bondmate’s mouth, his mind hovering on the indistinct boundary of unconsciousness.

     It was the feeling of Spock’s body against his that brought him back from the blown open bond. He blinked, reaching out to stroke into black hair, wanting his Vulcan’s mouth on his own again, feeling the continued burn of desire and need and realizing it was Spock’s.

 _Ashayam_. He didn’t know what it meant, but he could feel the ripples of significance after it, and he surged up, twisting to cover Spock’s long body with his own, watching as the dark head tilted back in pleasure as the weight of Jim’s body undulated over the Vulcan’s hardness. Almost in wonder, Jim reached to touch Spock’s face, drifting fingertips over psi points and feeling the rush of sensation, carding his hand through thick hair, sliding two fingers over the point of an ear and down his jawline to his lips, feeling an incredible surge of arousal as half-lidded eyes fastened on his.

     “You’re beautiful.” Jim whispered the words, but allowed his true meaning to radiate through their connection. His Vulcan was beautiful, all dark hair and eyes and long limbs cut with lean, defined muscle. But Jim also meant the gift of Spock’s body, his trust, after the terror of Darumar. And the gift of his mind, after the horrors he had endured. Jim lowered his mouth onto his bondmate’s, feeling his own erection slowly return, and rolled his hips gently against Spock’s. He languidly explored his mate’s mouth, concentrating on the bond, realizing with a pulse of delight that he could feel the echoes of Spock’s pleasure, could sense the Vulcan’s desire and excitement. And almost by touching on that powerful need, he ignited it further, and found himself again on his back in a whirl of motion that made his head spin.

     He could sense what Spock desired, knew that he wanted it too, and he pressed his answer towards his mate’s mind, feeling the Vulcan make a soft noise against his lips, his erection growing impossibly harder against Jim’s belly.

     “We need... .” He murmured the words into Spock’s mouth, knowing that the Vulcan could readily read what he meant, and he was suddenly alone on the bed, cool air uncomfortable against his skin. He heard a rustling noise, sensing the intensity of his bondmate’s search, and chuckled quietly, reaching down and stroking himself once, twice, before he felt his hand batted away, and was covered again by living, breathing warmth, the bond practically vibrating with anticipation. The mental power was back, and looming ever stronger, and Jim relaxed into it, like he had when they had melded, opening his mind and his body, letting his legs fall apart as his mouth was captured again and a newly slickened finger gently brushed against his entrance.

     Time fell away into need and desire; into the touch of tongues and skin, into the press of fingers into him, the pleasure already being felt through sensitive hands. Jim arched into the touch, and when he felt his partner shift their bodies and a firmer pressure slide against his entrance, he relaxed even further into the mental landscape, letting his mind fall into the wash of joining, into trust and love. He could feel his body respond, could feel the sting and fullness as he was entered, could feel his bondmate’s wonder and awe and pleasure as Vulcan heat was slowly surrounded by tight human coolness. And, as Jim felt his body relax, following his mind, Spock started to thrust into him. Slow, deliberate, long strokes, and Jim closed his eyes, raised his hips, pressing back, pushing his fingers through silky hair and across smooth skin.

     He was lost in their joining, as captured by the wave of shared physical passion as he had been in the depths of their mental communion. He floated, awash in a sea of sensations, both his, and his mate’s. And he felt Spock’s orgasm building from the brilliant depths of where mind met body, rising to encompass Jim as well. A slurry of Vulcan words rippled across his consciousness, and then his own name, repeated over and over, and the physical release cascaded over them both. As their bodies surged into each other, helplessly, Jim felt a mirroring emotional release suffuse their mental space, impelled by the enhanced mental power pulsing through the bond: unbelievable love, loyalty, pain and forgiveness, fear and understanding, courage and sacrifice, responsibility and pride. Jim shouted with the intensity of it, and they collapsed together, human sweat and semen sticky between them.

 

 

 

     They sat cross-legged on the bed, watching each other. They had managed to wipe away the lingering stickiness and pull away the damp sheets. They each wore a pair of sickbay scrub pants, found in a cabinet, but their chests and feet were bare. Jim had kept the lights low, and determinedly ignored the chrono, pushing aside his fear that the door would slide open any second and security would separate them. _Try_ to separate them, anyway. The dangerous intensity still in Spock’s eyes was mirrored by an almost wild protectiveness shimmering beneath his thoughts.

     The bond had calmed following their lovemaking, yet was still brilliant and strong between them. The inhuman power was better controlled now, the hint of chaos gone, emotions carefully identified and subdued. The hypersensitivity was still there, however, and Jim understood that even though their own connection had stabilized, Spock would still need time to heal, to properly shield his mind and contain his newly heightened psi-abilities around others.

     Jim knew that his underlying emotion and hidden undertones of thought were perceptible to his mate. And he could sense Spock’s mind behind the mystery of Vulcan impassivity. Of course, he had always seemed to be able to slip past the surface with his friend. It had been perhaps the worst part of the nightmare of Darumar, to be able to see everything in Spock’s eyes as the savagery of the creature ripped into him. A stab of irrational fear pulsed through him, and then melted away in the light of their connection, as a wave of understanding and reassurance soothed him.

     Jim reached out and gently took his mate’s hand in his, and with the other, he lightly traced two fingers across Spock’s lips. “This is incredible.” It was both easier and more frightening to talk this way, knowing that words were but the surface of their communication. Chosen carefully for emphasis, or deliberately disarming or misleading, it did not matter. With the bond as it was, communication became a dimensional object, with layers, and depth, and subtlety. It was alien to him, and yet fascinating.

     That last thought slipped through, and a breath of amusement buffeted his mind.  _As I often find humans to be._

     Jim smiled, and Spock spoke softly, leaning into Jim’s hand where it had moved to caress his cheek. “The bond can be controlled and shielded when it has to be. I do not wish to distract you, _t’hy’la_.”

     “I bet.” Jim’s playful tone sent ripples of love and desire between them. He slid his caress up to stroke a pointed ear tip, his eyes moving to follow it. Spock’s head turned, and he brushed his lips against Jim’s palm, and the human shivered as he sensed how much his bondmate desired his touch. He sobered suddenly. “I don’t want to leave you. I know I may have to, and I don’t...I can’t... .”

     Spock’s fingers tightened around Jim’s hand. “I shall follow you. I will be allowed contact with my bondmate, even if you are incarcerated.”

     “No.” Stubbornness.

     The faintest of smiles ghosted the Vulcan’s mouth. “You will not be in a position to stop me.”

     Jim grunted, his mind leaping from anger to acceptance to bitterness to grief. He felt a selfish desire to keep Spock with him, no matter what, and then a potent pulse of self-disgust, all superimposed with happiness and wonder that he was loved so much. Through the bond, Jim could sense Spock’s fascination as he witnessed the dynamic cacophony, and then the might of Vulcan discipline wrapped around Jim’s mental free-fall, forcing the human to focus on him.

     “My life is yours, Jim. You must accept it, and push aside your guilt once and for all. I will do my duty to our ship, and to our crew, but, on the far side of that, I will fulfill my duty to you. My choice on Darumar was simply that: my choice. One I would make again, even with full knowledge of what would be. And my choice in this circumstance is to remain with you.”

     Jim sighed, sensing all the determination and steel of Vulcan loyalty and love, and felt the dark specter of his impending court martial looming over them. He shrugged, allowing his fingers to ghost down Spock’s arm. “I suppose I can’t argue with you. I’d make the same decision again, about coming after you.”

     The bond warmed even further, and Jim was reminded of the deep connections, the parallels, the mirrors. They were each in the other’s hands, minds, and souls, and Jim couldn’t think of a better place to be. He leaned forward, loosening his fingers and this time moving both his hands to gently caress the sides of Spock’s face, bringing their mouths together again. But instead of passion and uncontrolled desire, this kiss was soft, gentle, as chaste and full of promise and love as the first one they had shared. He allowed their lips to brush, and slowly move against each other, their breath mingling, feeling the electricity slip once more down his spine.

     He drew back just slightly, just enough to look into dark eyes. “Anything, Spock.”

     The answer drifted into his mind.  _Fan-vel heh kanok-vei, ashayam_.

 

 

 

Chapter End Notes: Vulcan translation from the VLD.

 

 _Fan-vel heh kanok-vei_ : Anything and everything.

 

 


	15. Superman

Chapter Fifteen: Superman

 

 

     Jim sat stiffly in the main briefing room on the _Enterprise_ , back in uniform, the security cuffs temporarily removed from his wrists and ankles, and two armed guards standing just behind him. Admiral Coventry herself was beaming up to meet with him, and had ordered his presence here, instead of his quarters, where he had languished for almost six hours after McCoy had finally entered the isolation room. He stole a glance at the chrono, noting that the admiral was running late. Not that it mattered. He was determined to enjoy this extra time he had on his ship, before it was taken away. Before he was taken away.

     The doctor had brought fresh uniforms for him and Spock, water, and also food for the Vulcan and a liquid nutritive mix for Jim. He had not allowed the security guards to enter, and had walked with the command team as they had finally exited. Jim had been escorted immediately to his cabin, and McCoy and Spock had remained behind in sickbay, the doctor’s orders to continue to monitor the first officer’s condition countermanding Spock being taken into custody for multiple breaches of security protocols. Before the doors to sickbay shut behind his guards, Jim had heard McCoy loudly grousing about sending the entirety of the senior crew to the brig.

     Now, Jim allowed his eyes to close, briefly, savoring the feeling of the bond in his mind. He was sure that Spock was meditating, from the gentle ebb and flow of energy behind translucent shields. Testing, fortifying, brushing gently every now and then against Jim’s mind through their connection as if to allow a centering, a focal point, before beginning another regular pattern. With the distance, the bond was relaxing into a background pulse, which Jim was grateful for, especially in anticipation of this meeting.

     His reflections were broken sharply with the sound of the briefing room doors sliding open and then shut, and the rustle of fabric as the guards snapped to attention. Jim stood, keeping his eyes forward, and Admiral Coventry walked briskly around the table to stand across from him, tossing several PADDs down on the tabletop.

     “You’re dismissed, gentlemen.” Her tone allowed no dissension, and the security guards left. She waited until the doors slid shut again to focus on the captain. “Have a seat.” Her tone was dry, almost flippant, and she looked irritated and tired.

     Jim nodded slightly and lowered himself into his chair, rather more delicately than usual. Bones hadn’t even asked, simply given him a hypo for the lingering discomfort. Coventry sat down, too, and leaned back in her seat, crossing her arms in front of her and peering at him, her lips pursed. Endless seconds ticked by, and finally she sighed. “What the fuck were you thinking?”

     “Admiral, I... ,” he began, only to have her motion sharply, cutting him off.

     “Sabotage, desertion, theft, disobeying direct orders from a superior officer... .” She huffed, “I could go on.”

     “Yes, ma’am. If I could... .”

     “Shut up, Captain,” she interrupted brusquely.

     He pressed his lips together, waiting, and, after a beat, she continued, “Here’s what really happened: you were operating under orders when you broke security to go after Spock. Your ‘death’ remains a cover story prepared in order to weed out and thwart members of the conspiracy. If you were captured by the Klingons, to avoid war, Starfleet would’ve argued that you’d gone rogue. Doctor McCoy’s comments regarding your mental stability are evidence enough of previously existing incapacity, which would’ve provided decent justification for you running off, if we’d had to disavow you.”

     Jim stared at her, his mouth slightly open, and she shook her head. “I’m giving you back your ship. And dropping all charges against Lieutenant Uhura, too.”

     “But...why?”

     “Because it all worked out in the end. You’re back in because we have possession of a dilithium-rich world with full cooperation of the indigenous population, because our ships scared the crap out of the Klingons and we now know that their fleet’s still seriously compromised, because a dangerous conspiracy’s been uncovered and a humanitarian crisis is being averted, because your father-in-law is a goddamn ambassador with the full weight of New Vulcan behind him, and because the public wants a fucking hero!” Her voice had risen as she spoke, and the last word echoed within the room.

     He stared at her, a feeling of shock welling inside of him.

     “You and Spock saved Earth from Nero. You exposed Marcus. Throwing you in a cell for saving your endangered species bondmate isn’t how the Federation is going to crawl its way out of this scandal. Especially when your doing so allowed yet another conspiracy to be unveiled. There’s no way punishing you is going to come out in the Federation’s best interests. Or Starfleet’s.”

     Jim blinked, knowing she wasn’t finished. His body felt numb.

     Her voice lowered. “However, your actions did put the safety of the Federation in jeopardy. And don’t try to argue that you were only trying to rescue a fellow officer, or save those people from Klingon occupation, or bring back crucial intel, as your first officer has been insisting. You did it for one reason. The same reason you broke the Prime Directive on Nibiru. The same reason that McCoy ordered all those psych evals after Darumar. You’re compromised.”

     She stared challengingly at him, and he swallowed, finally leaning forward. “We would have gotten Spock out in the first place, had Narayan and Fergus not made the decision to leave him there to die. The Council would have authorized aid and protection to that planet had members of the conspiracy not interfered, dragging my name through the mud, and arguing against Starfleet effectiveness. Hell, we would have been there sooner and more definitively, had the emphasis previously been on humanitarian causes, and not simply acquiring dilithium.”

     He narrowed his eyes, jamming a finger on the tabletop for emphasis. “And, however we got him out, Spock provided information that resulted in exposure of some of the worst abuses the Federation’s ever seen: experimentation, exploitation, collusion with slavers, selling weaponry to the highest bidder.

     “Yes, he’s my bondmate, and yes, I agree that some of my motivation drew from our relationship. But he’s also a Starfleet officer, like many under my command, and I would have gone for any one of them, given similar circumstances.”

     She tilted her head, her gaze intense. “And what about the next time he’s in danger. How far will you go then?”

     “Risk is our business, ma’am. I knew he was still alive, on Prime, before the rescue craft showed up. And I had to let him go, because going after him then would have compromised the safety of my other officers. That was my decision, too.”

     “You’re both wanted men, now. The Orion syndicate and several other fringe groups have a substantial reward out for your deaths, and an even larger one for your capture. With most of the major players in the conspiracy firmly in Federation custody, they’re looking to blame the messengers. And right now that’s you and Spock.”

     “I don’t see how... .”

     She leaned back. “We’ve still got a lot to clean up. There’s been strong public backlash about the steps taken on Prime, about ignoring the humanitarian crisis there until we had other reasons to go in. The President’s announced a new initiative aimed at better protecting no-contact worlds, as well as to be more proactive as a socially responsible entity. And that includes directly taking on some of these organizations, including the Orions, using some of the intel provided by Spock and through ongoing questioning of those involved in the conspiracy.

     “We’re sending you back out there, not just as explorers, but also as investigators and enforcers. You’re going to be running highly dangerous and complex missions, and I don’t want to have to worry about you running off the reservation again in the likely event that something happens to your XO.” She made a face. “Or vice versa. I heard about what happened after the healer saw you.”

     “Ma’am, Spock was... .”

     “Was compromised. That’s my point!” Coventry watched him for a few seconds. “Jim, I’ve kept an eye on your career since you signed up. Hell, even before that. I know your passion for your job and your crew, and I know that you’re damn good at what you do. Starfleet needs you. But this...reputation you’re getting as a loose cannon? It will ultimately destroy you.” She took a deep breath. “Now more than ever you should realize that Starfleet and the Federation operate on more than simple right and wrong. They’re inherently political entities, and your shotgun actions are giving present and future enemies ammunition against you. You’re a goddamn military tactician; you should understand the position you’re putting yourself in!”

     “Admiral, I... .”

     She interrupted again, her eyes hard, “You and your crew will be going into some difficult situations. Don’t make me have to abandon you because you’ve burned every bridge and spat on the ashes.”

     Jim flinched. “Is that a threat?”

     She shook her head, looking suddenly tired. “It’s a sad fact, Jim. Look at what just happened. You would have been cut off if things hadn’t fallen into place politically. Going by the book keeps you and your crew safe. And gives those behind you avenues for backup!”

     Jim looked at her levelly. “What’s written in the book doesn’t always allow for situational judgment. And transparency counts, too, Admiral. Maybe things wouldn’t have turned out this way if you’d been upfront with the entire reason we were going to Prime in the first place.”

     He watched her expression flicker between anger and resignation. “You’re right, Captain. I’ll give you that. Maybe we can both learn lessons from this mess.”

     “Yes, ma’am.”

     They looked at each other for a long moment, and then Coventry waved a hand. “You’ve got things to do. I’ll expect a report from you regarding your ‘mission’ on my PADD as soon as possible. The _Enterprise_ will remain in station keeping for the time being, but expect new orders from me as soon as the dust settles.”

     “Yes, ma’am.”

     Jim started to rise and Coventry rubbed a hand over her forehead. “And tell McCoy to keep me informed of Spock’s recovery. Your first officer’s recent breach of discipline will be overlooked, too, of course. He’ll be receiving a commendation for his actions on Prime.”

     He nodded. “Thank you, ma’am.”

     She folded her hands on the tabletop. “Dismissed, Captain.”

     Jim stood at attention. “Admiral.” He turned crisply and left the room, adrenaline still pouring through his system, holding his hands loosely into fists to keep them from shaking. He had his ship back. He had his bondmate back. But the startling issues mentioned by Coventry hovered at the back of his mind, and he knew that what had begun on Sigma Corolan Prime was far from over.

 

 

 

     Jim’s first stop after leaving the briefing room was Nyota’s quarters, and he was pleased to see that the security guards were already gone from the front of her door. He pressed the buzzer, and the door slid open immediately, as if she was already expecting him. And he knew that she had been, because he hadn’t taken two steps into the room before she flung herself into his arms.

     “You lucky bastard. How did you sweet-talk your way out of this one?”

     Her voice was muffled against Jim’s shoulder, and he shook his head, still in shock from what happened in the briefing room. “I didn’t have to say anything, it turned out.”

     She pulled back, slightly, eyes studying his face. “How’s Spock?”

     Jim led her over to the couch. He was feeling suddenly light-headed himself, and he knew that it couldn’t be good for her to be on her feet. They sat down, but she kept her hand on his arm, worry written across her face. He wondered if he looked as drained and shell-shocked as he felt.

     “He’s much better. Off the kisandromine, and meditating.” He hesitated, and then met her eyes. “We bonded, fully. A mating bond. It seemed to help.”

     She nodded thoughtfully, and Jim looked her over. “How are you? Bones said you were doing better.”

     She smiled gently and stretched her leg out, flexing it, and then holding out her healed arm. “All better, aside from some discomfort.” Her smile turned into a wry grin. “Leonard’s been sneaking me all the latest news since I’ve been stuck in here. You should’ve heard him intimidate the security guards.”

     “I did.” Jim smiled back. “I haven’t heard anything since we docked. Coventry wasn’t in the mood to be relaying status reports.” He chuckled dryly. “I have the feeling we’ll need to send Sarek some sort of fruit basket.”

     Nyota tilted her head, leaning back against the cushions. “That makes sense from what I’ve been hearing. Sarek is organizing a new committee in the Council charged specifically with humanitarian causes, including protection and representation of no-contact worlds within Federation space and directly policing sentient species trafficking. It’ll be working with Starfleet, and will include a Starfleet representative. They’ll be dissolving the old structure dealing with Prime Directive cases, and will be instituting new policies to prevent the kinds of backdoor deals that allowed Narayan and Fergus to operate.”

     Jim mimicked her position, and crossed his arms over his chest. “Coventry said we’ll be getting more involved in enforcement, particularly with regard to the Orions.”

     She raised her eyebrows. “The Council and the President are moving fast; considering the uproar over this issue.”

     “Any news from Prime itself? The revolt?”

     Nyota nodded. “Hikaru kept an ear out for reports from the remaining members of the battle group. Apparently, the wife of the high priest orchestrated the revolt, claiming the Klingons murdered the priest and declaring religious vendetta, proclaiming that the gods would send defenders to save the people if they fought the demons. She was the one who sent the message to the Federation that finally convinced the Council to send aid.”

     Jim grunted, remembering disturbing images of Sasia’s uncertainty and ambition in the flash-feed of information that had bombarded his mind when he had first seen Spock in the cave.

     “She ended up being killed shortly after sending the message, which enflamed the people even more. The Klingons ended up murdering thousands before we got there, but Starfleet was conveniently seen as avenging angels, or something.” She frowned. “Not really the approach we usually take, but the powers that be were happy to simply have a place to start.”

     “And Feriah and the Shrivth-el?”

     Nyota looked sad. “Under protection. Prejudices die hard, and the mainstream society’s in chaos. Feriah’s alive, though. I made sure Leonard informed the landing force to secure the caves and retrieve Fergus’ men, and Lia Morrow volunteered to remain behind as a contact. She’s been working with Feriah specifically to find and protect other hidden Shrivth-el groups.” She tilted her head, watching Jim, who had looked away. “You fulfilled your promise, Jim.”

     He smiled slightly, facing her again. “How do you know about that? I’m pretty sure I never said it out loud.”

     She smiled back. “I know you pretty well, Jim.”

     He blinked, the light-headed feeling now refusing to go away, and he could sense a growing tension within the bond. “I think I better check on Spock. And get some rest. I didn’t sleep at all waiting for that meeting with Coventry.”

     Nyota shook her head and chuckled. “I’m not surprised. Tell Spock he’s in my thoughts.”

     “I will. Thanks, Ny. For everything.” This time he reached forward, enveloping her in a hug. He felt her arms tighten around him, and knew that he never would have gotten off the _Enterprise_ , never would have gotten Spock back, if she had not been there. Deep affection for his chosen family, for his friends, thrummed strongly within him, striking a profound emotive chord, and he felt her body tense against his.

     She pulled back, and her eyes were shining. “I could feel that, Jim. Good lord.”

     He stared at her, realizing what had just happened, and she released him slowly, watching him in frightened wonderment. “You better tell Spock. And Leonard.”

 

 


	16. Where We Go From Here

Chapter Sixteen: Where We Go From Here

 

 

     Jim sat on a biobed in the middle of sickbay, his legs dangling over the side and his arms crossed in front of him, defensively. Next to the bed, looking up at the readouts on the overhead monitor, stood McCoy, a scowl on his face and a PADD clutched in a fierce grip, and Savtor, whose expression was, disturbingly, just this side of excited. Spock stood directly behind Jim, and the captain could feel his bondmate’s tension radiating across their connection.

     The hours spent in meditative exercise had been beneficial for the Vulcan; Jim could feel it in the way the bond was flowing comfortably between them, powerfully and controlled. However, in this close proximity he could also feel the growing mental fatigue, the rush of thoughts and subdued emotions beneath thinning translucent boundaries, and the perception of hypersensitivity was worse in the near presence of Bones and the healer. He could feel Spock’s strong desire for touch, and a yearning for mental closeness on the order of a meld, to sink into and against Jim’s mind, centering and strengthening, allowing the natural barriers to form between them and the world, as had happened so easily during the bonding. And Jim ached, too. He wished for the physical comfort and sanctuary of his bondmate’s body, knowing that the allowance of the wish itself was a reminder that the lingering shades of Darumar were slowly releasing their hold on him.

     He wished, irrationally, that they could simply be, for a while. He knew it was his own fatigue speaking, his lingering shock that the court martial had not happened, that his mate was healing and would not be sent away, his reaction to the deep meld and profound joining, to the remaining effects of his injuries, to the mixture of astonishment and curiosity and concern that he read on the face of every crewman he had seen since being beamed back from Prime, back from the dead. He needed to step back, to reflect, to internalize, and to accept, to regroup, and prepare to move forward again. Instead, he steeled himself, and blinked resignedly at McCoy’s question.

     “What was that, Bones?”

     The doctor shook his head, irritation evident on his face, and, distantly, through Spock’s telepathy. “Do you understand what we were just talking about?”

     The captain sighed, feeling like his brain was on auto-function, and addressed the Vulcan healer, “You think that because Spock and I are _t’hy’la_ somehow allowed certain neural pathways to become more susceptible to telepathic input. And when Spock initiated a full mating bond with me, the enhanced psionic energy from his mind activated latent centers in my brain.”

     McCoy covered his eyes with one hand, and Savtor inclined his head, his gaze sharp and intense. “In a crude sense, yes, Captain. Spock’s psi-abilities have been enhanced beyond his previous limits, and it appears this enhancement will be permanent. You and Spock are extremely mentally compatible, meaning that your psionic signatures resonate constructively with each other, a fact that allowed the natural development of a link in the first place. When Spock initiated a full bond, he directly stimulated additional areas of your brain into resonance. Now, normally, in bonding with a psi-null being, the psi-active partner alone would regulate the mental connection by the amount of energy available to the bond. However, because your minds are unusually well attuned, you are able to respond to smaller than normal amounts of energy. And now, with his natural energies substantially increased, it effectively has rendered you able to function as a low-level empath, consistent with the human trait of extreme emotional sensitivity.”

     “Meaning I can apparently project strong emotions, and probably pick up on others’ emotions as well.”

     Savtor himself was projecting un-Vulcan eagerness, and Jim could feel it grow as Spock’s outer shields slipped, the translucence fading in places to transparence. The captain felt his bondmate’s determined draw on the bond, feeling the shields strengthen again, but the echo of pain was back. He heard Spock shift slightly behind him and tried to send reassurance to his mate.

     “As long as the psionic energy is available to you through the bond, Captain. If Spock were to become unconscious, or fully shield the bond, your abilities, as they were, would largely cease. Your perception of dizziness before you projected to Lieutenant Uhura could be understood as your unconscious draw on the psionic energy available, as it was being focused and regulated by your bondmate during meditative practice.”

     “Right,” Jim replied absently, swinging his legs over the biobed and sliding off, standing next to his bondmate. _Are you alright?_ It was a silly question to ask, given his clear perception across the bond, but it was very human, and he didn’t even realize he had successfully mentally vocalized until Spock’s reply came back.

_The healer’s opinion must be heard._

     The two medical men seemed not to notice Jim’s change in position and had focused on each other. “So what does this mean for them?” McCoy had removed his hand from his eyes, but his face was still twisted disapprovingly.

     The healer clasped his hands in front of him calmly. “Spock must instruct his bondmate on shielding and control, and, because of their strong compatibility, there is a danger that their connection may evolve over time to the point where the complete absence of it could induce death.”

     “What!” McCoy’s shout echoed through the sickbay, and Spock visibly flinched, backing away a step. Jim moved instinctively between his bondmate and the doctor, his arms moving back over his chest.

     Savtor’s expression was nonchalant. “However, that is not presently the case, I believe.”

     “But you can’t be sure.”

     “Correct.”

     “So I have to wait for one of them to die before finding out if I’ll lose both of them.”

     “Affirmative.”

     McCoy was seething. “That’s not really a long shot case around here, you know.”

     “Other abilities may surface, given time and improved control.” Savtor’s tone was contemplative. “Between Vulcan bondmates with high-level psi-abilities and extreme compatibility, focused efforts may allow for temporary _katric_ residence, physical healing and regulation by the partner, limited shared sense perception, and, most commonly, active nonverbal communication.”

     Jim could sense, through the bond, McCoy’s incredulity and hankering for a fight, and broke in, causing both men to look at him. “We can already do that. Well, the last one, anyway. I’m not sure what the others are. Regardless, both of you need to stow it; your mental backwash is so bad even I can feel it.”

     Savtor practically disappeared immediately behind iron controls, and McCoy’s sudden understanding and guilt permeated his psionic signature as he physically stepped back.

     “Jesus, Jim. Spock, I’m sorry.”

     Jim’s jaw tensed. “Look, we’re going to my quarters. I’ve had enough, and Spock’s had enough, and we both need some time. I have a report to write and debriefs to coordinate. I have to make sure that everyone actually sees me again now that I’m not either dead or under arrest. I’m exhausted, I’m still on a fucking liquid diet, and I’m pretty sure we’re going to receive new mission parameters in less than twenty-four hours, with the way things have been going. So, unless I’m going to begin starting fires with my eyes, I think we’re just going to table it for now.” He glared at both men, before focusing on Savtor. “Is there anything else we absolutely should know?”

     The healer raised an eyebrow. “Physical intimacy should aid in your recovery and assist in your control.”

     McCoy’s jaw dropped. “Dammit, man, don’t you have anything else to suggest beyond meditate and have sex?”

     “Indeed, Doctor, however the captain indicated that he was not amenable to lengthy discourse at this time. The enhanced energies associated with achievement of physical climax provide a... .”

     The healer’s voice faded from his hearing as Jim practically dragged his bondmate out of sickbay.

 

 

 

     They rode the lift and followed the corridors to Deck Five, heading to Jim’s cabin. The few crewmembers they passed kept to their own business, beyond a professional nod of acknowledgment, but, through his bondmate’s thinning shields, Jim could dimly sense the _curiosity, relief, confusion_ that seemed to trail like a ghost behind them. He meant what he had said to the doctor: that he needed, almost desperately, to reconnect with his crew.

     Since their initial arrival at Corolan Prime, the men and women of the _Enterprise_ had been through much: the loss of three crewmembers, confrontations with the Klingons, the supposed deaths of both the first officer and the captain and then their miraculous recovery, questions of a conspiracy, tension with the Admiralty, the mysterious theft of a shuttlecraft, and then their captain apparently taken into custody. Even now, he did not know what they had been told, had not had a chance to talk to Hikaru, still in the center seat on the bridge. A part of him faltered and he paused, three steps from the door to his quarters. He looked over, and both saw and sensed understanding in dark eyes and through the bond.

_I would expect nothing else, t’hy’la. See to the ship._

     Jim winced, feeling the guilt threaten him again, only to feel it disappear into his mate’s powerful loyalty, acceptance, and pride.

_You are my choice, Jim. And this is who you are._

_I’ll be back as soon as I can._ Enunciating his thought hurt, that time, and Jim knew that he was skating a thin edge with regard to his mental and physical stamina. He watched as Spock turned and continued the few meters to his own quarters and entered, feeling the bond’s intensity lessen as the distance between them increased. Straightening his shoulders, Jim took a deep breath and headed back to the lift.

 

 

 

     The reaction of the acting captain as Jim stepped onto the bridge was probably not strictly regulation. Hikaru stood up immediately and walked over to Jim, his grin threatening to split his face, gripping his hand tightly and then pulling him into an embrace. “Welcome back, _Captain_.”

     Jim grinned, and clapped his friend on the back. “Thanks.” He glanced around at the other bridge crew, also wearing huge smiles, and shook hands with Chekov, who had bounded over as soon as Hikaru stepped back. Jim didn’t need telepathy to read the joy on the faces of his crew, to sense that they were happy to finally see things returning to a tenuous 'normal'. It was almost palpable, this sense of _home_ , and Jim wondered how much of his empathic ability had always been there, just below the surface, now given just a slight extra push. The notion appealed to him and made the changes rendered by the bonding less mysterious and uncontrollable. Natural leadership, charisma, his preternatural ability to read into situations and people, his luck when it came to bluffing, and his ability to guess correctly, even in impossible situations: all these things implied that a certain degree of emotional empathy came naturally to him anyway.

     After the gentle clamor subsided, Hikaru leaned in, lowering his voice. “I’m guessing you’re not quite ready to take the chair, Jim.”

     Jim nodded subtly, and the acting captain stepped back, raising his voice. “Mr. Chekov, you’ve got the conn. Captain Kirk and I will be in the briefing room.”

     “Aye, sair!”

 

 

 

     Jim slid into a chair in the briefing room, interestingly the same one he had vacated only a couple hours before, and waited until the doors had shut behind Hikaru before heaving a sigh and allowing his posture to slump.

     The acting captain took a seat across the table and smiled. “You okay?”

     Jim nodded. “Yeah, just tired.” He met his friend’s eyes. “Thanks for taking care of my ship, Hikaru.”

     The younger man’s gaze turned slightly sad. “I’m just glad to be able to hand her back to you, Jim. You had us worried there. A few times.”

     The captain swallowed. “Me, too.”

     There was a silence, and then the helmsman shifted in his seat. “I hadn’t made any official announcements one way or the other, after you’d been declared dead. I’m pretty sure the shuttle theft, our fast run back to Prime, and the appearance of Coventry onboard has you participating in some sort of top secret mission, according to ship’s gossip, but I think everyone’s just happy to have you, Nyota, and Spock back.”

     Jim nodded. “I’m not officially cleared for duty yet. At least I think I’m not; I kind of walked out of my last exam. But I’d appreciate it if you could hold onto her for another twelve hours or so until I can get myself caught up.”

     “Sure.” Hikaru tilted his head. “I...uh...heard that you and Spock... .”

     Jim smiled. “We bonded. That’s actually part of why I’m still off.”

     “I’m glad, Jim, for both of you. After Darumar... .” He cleared his throat. “You just weren’t the same.”

     “I know.” Jim involuntarily glanced down at his hands, folded on the tabletop. “We’re going to be okay.” He raised his eyes, new confidence in his voice. “We’re good.”

     Hikaru grinned, and Jim took a breath. “Okay, I’ll be honest, I’ve got about a half hour of energy left before I fall on my face. Let me have a rundown of ship’s status and anything you may have heard from Coventry about our next mission.”

     The helmsman nodded neatly and straightened in his seat, and Jim leaned forward, losing himself happily in the intricacies of the job.

 

 

 

     Spock sat cross-legged on the floor next to Jim’s bed, wearing a pair of soft black sleep pants and a regulation t-shirt. He held the pose of meditation, his hands resting palms up and open on his knees, his back straight; however, his mind had not fallen into trance. He could now feel his mate’s approach, the determination and focus almost that same now as it had been when Spock was still on Prime, when he had sensed Jim across greater distances, coming back to him.

     Spock allowed his mind to reach along their strengthened connection, feeling it slip almost effortlessly towards his mate, feeling Jim’s mental sigh of relief as their thoughts brushed. The Vulcan closed his eyes, aware of the vibrancy, the cool multifaceted light of Jim’s mind. He perceived his mate in shades of blue and gold, the dynamic contours and patterns of his thoughts safe and beloved, a place of stability, healing, and comfort, a place that had enabled Spock to begin to combat the dreadful helplessness, exposure, and agony of the injuries inflicted on his mind.

     Spock knew that the powerful draw between them was partially due to the newness of the deep bond they now shared, a natural stimulus for them to touch and experience each other, to enable the connection to stabilize and strengthen. But it was a draw that was also profoundly familiar, a natural synergy that surpassed even that developed over decades of Vulcan betrothal in the normal course of a bonding. And Spock knew now that the link that had formed subconsciously, before Darumar, had indeed been a bond, and, even before that, been the recognition of souls whose minds and bodies were late in catching up. And during the worst of Darumar, when the agony of the knife wounds had ripped him open, his blood and strength draining away, and he had felt the horror of his _t’hy’la_ ’s hands circling his throat, relentlessly pressing the life out of him, he had called on the fluency of that draw between them to will Jim’s mind to be open to him, to allow him to press forward and fight the creature, despite the overwhelming anguish and pain of the shattering connection.

     He quirked an eyebrow as he recalled Savtor’s description of constructively interfering psionic energy patterns, an explanation that was perhaps scientifically appropriate, but somewhat unfulfilling. In this, his bond with his very human mate, he found he had an illogical wish to describe the phenomenon in more human terms of metaphor and hyperbole; imprecision and color and hidden meanings. He would inquire of his father whether his mother had held a similar emotive impact on their bond.

     The door to the cabin slid open and shut, and Spock opened his eyes to his bondmate slipping down to sit in front of him on the floor, blue eyes sharp and full of life even in a face paled and temporarily lined with tension and exhaustion, hands reaching to clasp Spock’s in a firm grip. They searched each other’s eyes, and Jim’s thoughts haltingly coalesced as peaks within the ambient noise of his mind.  _Hikaru’s got her. Will call me if needed. I want to go to bed. With you._

     Spock relaxed his remaining controls on the bond, allowing amusement, contentment, and anticipation to flow across their bond. He knew that his own anxiety over Jim’s exhibited empathic ability was unabated, but he could feel it being countered, within the contours of their connection, with Jim’s steady reassurance and personal acceptance. He could sense Jim’s guilt over having left his mate to go to the bridge, and countered it himself, almost subconsciously, with understanding and support. It was fascinating how much meaningful interaction was possible, at this proximity and with his conscious decision to lower his shields between them.

     So easy, their mental interaction, as easy as how their bodies fit together under the blankets on Jim’s bunk, warm skin against cool, long forms honed by years of physical training and discipline relaxing into each other, shapes fitting bodily as well as mentally. Spock could sense his mate’s need for their press of naked skin, and gently took Jim’s mouth, moving his lips slowly across the human’s, feeling them open to him. The kiss was slow, sensual, and as they shifted together on the bed, Spock could feel their minds moving together almost involuntarily, and he positioned his fingers to press against Jim’s psi points, hearing his mate’s murmur of approval against his lips, removing every last impediment to their minds flowing forth, intermingling, finding solace and strength within the contours and the mirrored places, within the depth of their love and connection, feeling together the awe and the wonder, and the joy.

 

 

 

     They strode smoothly down the corridors of the _Enterprise_ , their shoulders softly brushing as they walked to the bridge directly from sickbay. The captain’s bright smile and boisterous energy was back, the first officer’s swift, measured stride and indulgent eyebrow returned. Spock’s eyes followed the captain, as always, but their expression was warm, almost belying his characteristic impassive countenance. Passing crewmembers smiled and nodded politely, sensing that normalcy had returned. And then, shortly after, when the shipwide address came through over the intercom, the crew of the Fleet’s flagship stopped and watched on the viewscreen as their captain once again stood in front of the center chair, back on-duty, and in command.

     “This is the Captain. I’ve received orders from Admiral Coventry that we’re to ship out within the next hour, heading to the edges of Alpha quadrant to confront an Orion-led piracy ring. Intelligence suggests that Shrivth captives were found there, and our job is to retrieve them, and others, and to bring the pirates to justice.

     “This mission, while not exploration in its purest form, must be undertaken boldly nonetheless. Not only because it involves the recovery of beings trapped by slavery and cruelty, but because it represents a new beginning for the Federation. Sigma Corolan Prime was difficult for many reasons, not the least of which was the confrontation between what was right, and what was easy. We swore an oath to protect the Federation, and that includes threats both internal and external. It includes standing up proactively for ideals that do not discriminate because of wealth or power, defending innocence instead of merely acknowledging it. As we move forward, the example of Corolan Prime will stand as a guide and as a warning.

     “This is the finest ship in the Fleet. And the finest crew in the Fleet. Our recent losses, of Lieutenant Commander Chris Perry, Lieutenant Xiao Liang, and Ensign Bart Humphrey, weigh heavily in our hearts. Let us work for peace, and justice, in their memory. We will continue to be an example of everything we can be, instead of simply what we are expected to be. And I couldn’t be prouder to be your captain. Let’s make this one count.”

     On the bridge, Jim nodded at Nyota to close the channel and looked forward to Hikaru at the helm. “Take us out, Mr. Sulu.”

     “Aye, sir. Maneuvering thrusters.”

     The _Enterprise_ slowly moved astern and turned away from space dock, impulse engines firing as they slipped clear and Nyota spoke up from her station, “All decks indicating readiness for warp speed, Captain.”

     “Course laid in, sair.” Chekov’s voice was full of anticipation.

     “Warp three, Mr. Sulu. Let’s ride.”

     The helmsman smiled and pushed the lever forward, and Jim glanced to his side to meet Spock’s eyes, the grin on the human’s face met by the smallest upturn of the Vulcan’s mouth, their bond shining, and their future strong.

 

 

THE END

 

 

Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek, and I do not make any money from this.

 

 


End file.
